who ordered the drama llama?
Maisie has never been a dog inclined to get into mischief…unless you count her first day here, seven-and-a-half years ago, when, for reasons known only to her, she thought it would be most amusing to steal the toilet paper roll and carry it around in her mouth like a cushy, absorbent, two-ply bone. To be fair, in addition to waking up in a brand new home, she’d just been through surgery the day before and was drugged up on painkillers. That’s enough to make any of us act a little kooky.
They say German Shepherds are problem solvers. “They”—whoever they are—don’t know the half of it. This girl has performed a number of feats that she had never been taught, incredible feats we still can’t explain, and she continues to surprise us. But, while she may yet solve the mysteries of quantum mechanics, she never, ever uses that stellar intelligence in the service of mischief. Until Monday afternoon.
Bags full of groceries littered the kitchen floor, waiting to be emptied of their contents—by the humans of the household, I should clarify, humans who were right there with them, just about to commence the task. As usual, the perishables were packed into insulated bags that were also zipped closed. Somehow, without making a sound or being spotted, our little girl managed to pull off the heist of the century (okay, it was no Louvre theft, but still—she’s a dog, there were potential witnesses. It was pretty impressive.) I walked past the living room and noticed that Maisie had something scattered all over the rug. Worse, she was obviously chewing. At first, I assumed she’d ripped open a toy, releasing its poly-fill entrails in the process. Then Dennie and I got closer and the reality hit us like a head-on collision with a Pachycephalosaurus: somehow our genius of a dog managed to not only unzip an insulated bag, she’d also opened a cardboard box containing fried chicken from the deli, slipped the breast out of the box, pulled it through the unzipped corner of the bag, and spirited it away into another room to devour the whole thing while leaving the box intact in the bag exactly where we expected to find it. The cardboard flaps had even been closed again. No evidence of a crime remained at the scene. And all of this was accomplished with ninja-level stealth and generally observant parents no more than a couple feet away.
We eat vegetarian in our home. That chicken had always been intended for our dog. As it happens every grocery day, the skin and bones would have been removed, then shredded pieces of white meat would top Maisie's dinner as a special treat for the next few days. At least, that was the plan. As the secondary crime scene came into view, as our dog chomped down the last remnants of her avian massacre, I turned into anxiety personified—all that skin and seasoned coating that we never let her have. All those chicken bones that could do untold harm to her insides. (If you know Jake’s story, you’ll understand why this was cause for panic.) We’d arrived too late to get any of it away from our beloved pup. Though still fighting off a nasty virus, Dennie called the vet, and after many concerned questions, we were reassured that, for a dog Maisie’s size, the risk of catastrophic complications from one chicken breast was low, even though she’d eaten the bones. Maisie would probably get sick, we were told, potentially two to three days of vomiting and/or diarrhea, but, provided it didn’t last any longer than that, she would most likely be fine. I’m beyond relieved to say, she is. Though, on that first evening, she did experience a few episodes that will put our Bissell Little Green Machine to the test--and she remained lethargic the next day and a half as well--she’s back to her usual cuddly, brilliant, extraordinary self today. As a result, her mommy is once again partaking in that age-old celebrated custom of breathing.
One patient better. One more to go.
Who needs Halloween when you’ve got a sweet pup willing to go out of her way to provide a good fright? All jesting aside, she's an amazing dog, one who never, ever gets into mischief…unless you count that time she stole a toilet paper roll…or that other time she pulled off the poultry heist of the century.
So, one badly bruised author still recovering, two convalescing family members fighting off disparate ailments, a mailbox that remains knocked to the ground (because no one here has been in any condition to restore it), and a haunting holiday lurking in the wings. That’s our drama for the week. For our next act, well, I dread to think, but, as it is Mischief Night and our ten-year-old baby is so very clever, I've taken certain precautions. Unlike grocery day, there is no food in sight, no cleaners or OTCs either. The feral cats and our dog are being kept at a distance to prevent conspiratorial plotting. (Sweet as Miss Malcolm and Mr. Mooney are, cats are notoriously bad influences.) And the car keys have been hidden far out of Maisie's reach, just in case she gets any ideas. She is, after all, a genius, one we love infinitely, even when she went a little rogue ninja chicken rustler on us.
Now, as Dennie wraps up the first day back to work (one that was undoubtedly too soon), we're looking forward to a quiet dinner, a spooky movie, and a michief-free sort of night--for us, for all. Remember, toilet paper doesn't belong on trees, my friends. It belongs in the jaws of a loopy dog. Apparently. One that never, ever gets into mischief of any kind.
