You Might Be Working Like a Dog If…..!
Jeff Foxworthy made a lot of money on the line, “You Might Be a Redneck if…” I don’t know about the redneck in me but I
have discovered an answer to “You might be working like a dog if…
Upon returning home from the newspaper office Wednesday
night after working 15 hours straight, I trudged up the front steps to the door
and prepared my self to meet the onslaught of my four-legged ‘children’ who had
been left at home all day alone.
Sounding something like the animal shelter at feeding time, they could
have waked the dead with their choruses of “It’s about time you got here.”
I put my key in the lock and was only mildly surprised when
it didn't open immediately. In my dazed
state I simply figured I was doing something wrong and blindly tired again and
again to turn the key. Even pulled it
out and inserted it again. Get the
Picture? (At 11pm I’m not the brightest
bulb in the chandelier.)
But I do finally realize that this key isn't working and I stare
at the key ring and then begin inserting other keys on the ring, one by one. No luck.
This is when I begin to grasp the full extent of the situation. For some reason, I am locked out of my house!
Not to worry I think, there has to be window open somewhere
so I set down my briefcase, purse, camera and always present soft drink and
begin circling the house like a prospective cat burglar as the ‘children’
follow me inside the house appearing at every window to check on my
progress. I am hoping that I don’t
somehow alert my neighbors who might even call the police. (While the police might be useful in helping
me get in the house, I’m not ready to face the embarrassment of not being able
to unlock the door.) Of course, no
windows are open.
It’s late and I am really tired so I decide I will simply go
back to my office, sleep on the couch and face this dilemma in the light of
day. I vainly try to explain the
situation to the (by now) howling creatures inside and bid them good
night.
On my way back to town, it occurs to me that there is one
other possibility that would gain me entrance to the house and the bathtub I so
desperately seek. DUH!!! The back door
has a “Doggie Door’!
Sorry about the U-turn in the middle of the road but I’m now
a woman on a mission as I roar back down my driveway and again am greeted by
elated barking and whining. (Isn’t it
nice when SOMEONE is happy to see you?)
Around to the back door where I stand back and mentally
compare the size of the doggie door to the imagined size of my body. “Imagined” being the operative word
here. “Surely,” I tell myself, “I can fit through there. The Boston Terriers go through it quite
easily. ” (Do you have a clue to where
this is going yet?) I actually glance
around to see if anyone could witness this humiliation. (Yeah right, it’s now 11:30 pm and pitch dark
out here.) I drop to my hands and knees
and begin head first. Not a great idea I
soon discover, because just as soon as my head appears inside the house, it is met by six eager and expectant
faces, all completely committed to
helping me with my problem or at the very least, simply joining this
‘game’.
It doesn't take me long to realize that this approach isn't going to work and I have to retreat to the outside and try again, this time leading the attack with my left
hand, (to fend off the dogs) followed by my head, left and then right
shoulder. My right arm is now pinned to
my side and totally useless. My left arm
is valiantly trying to defend my head and shoulders from being stomped and
tromped by 24 sets of toenails attached to the 6, now frantic, dogs. It was just my take on things but I didn't think it was going well.
I resort to Cajun expletives and dire threats to no
avail. Then I remember, “Hey, I’m a dog trainer! Do something!” I call out to Lacy “Get your toy, Lacy, go get your toy!” (I’m
figuring I can chuck the toy into the living room and relieve myself of at
least three dogs while they retrieve and fight over it.) She cocks her head and looks at me as if to
say, “Are you SURE you really want to
play fetch now?” But she bounds away
with several others in her wake and soon returns with the rubber hot dog toy
and drops it a few inches from my nose, backing off to be ready to spring into
motion when I throw it. That little
maneuver proved to be her undoing. The
rubber hot dog is a favorite possession of my normally mild mannered Angel and
she was outraged that Lacy had ‘stolen’ it.
Angel bounded over my head, leaving skid marks on the side of my face and
the fight was on. And if you have ever
been around Boston Terriers, you know they really can get serious about a
fight. Jazmine and Chester join the
fracas and Odie takes up coaching from the sideline.
I remind myself stoically,
“You wanted something to distract them”
I now turn my attention to Alex, the 180 pound Great Dane whose contribution
to the situation was to firmly place one giant paw in the small of my back and
freeze in position like some giant bird dog on point.
I muster a threat to him in Cajun that (roughly translated
in English) explains that if he doesn’t remove his foot, I will tear his leg
off and beat him with the bloody stump.
It was a threat often uttered at me as a child and it had basically the
same effect on Alex as it did on me.
Either he doesn’t speak Cajun or simply wasn’t intimidated by a woman
weighing half his poundage trapped in a doggie door. At this point I seriously considered simply
lying there until morning but when something cold and wet begins exploring my
ear, I decide I must ‘press on’.
I grit my teeth and address the problem of squeezing the
largest part of my anatomy through the portal.
It takes a great deal of wriggling and heavy breathing, (Remember, one hand is still pinned to my
side.)
At this point, you would think I would be making serious
vows to take drastic measures to reduce the size of my largest part, but no, I
just repeatedly bemoan the fact that I didn’t buy a larger doggie door. (Women can rationalize anything.)
One final heave and I collapse on the floor. Freedom at last! Skinned, scraped and weary, I go to the front
door and bring in my belongings from the steps.
At that point, I am slapped in the face with the realization that: The key I was using to get in the house was
my OFFICE KEY!
You might be working like a dog if….!
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