Thursday, April 02, 2015

Escape artist

This is  a story about a dog.

OUR dog, Wernstrom.

Yay!  A Wern story!

Gather ‘round kiddies, and learn about freedom and what one dog would trade it for.


This morning, as I was getting ready to leave for work, I put Wern the dog out in the backyard to get some fresh air and make his last biological deposits to the yard for the morning.  Because our backyard is fenced (and doubly fenced on the side he knows he can jump over!), I didn’t feel it was necessary to watch over him while he was doing his ablutional activities.  The worst he could do would be to chase some birds and maybe dig a(nother) hole.

I had things to do, people!

After putting on the ol’ war paint and combing my hair, I went to fetch the puppy from the yard, having fully expected to hear him pounding at the back door as he does when he realizes he’s outside, alone.  But no pounding had occurred and I was proud of him for being such a big boy and not a big ol’ ‘fraidy cat as has been his MOA forever.

Opened the back door, stepped out onto the deck.  This usually brings him running like a deer, quick like a bunny.  But….no Wern.

“Oh crap, he’s learned to jump the OTHER side of the fence,” thought I.

But he was not in the lot next door.

He must have been gone a while by this point.  Several minutes at least!  He could be anywhere!  A mild panic began to sneak through the OPEN GATE to the driveway!!  Gah!  No jumpy, just a little stroll through the freaking open gate that I didn’t check before I put him out.

Now he SERIOUSLY could be anywhere.  So I  put on my shoes and prepared to take a quick stroll through the neighborhood with a treat in hand to tempt him back home.

It was a really quick walk, as he was nosing around in the front garden, sniffing at the weird-smelling dirt in The World Out Front.  I called his name, he looked at me.  I called more encouragingly, he looked up the street, as if to bolt.

Then I said the magic words:

“Come on in, Wern, let’s get a cookie!”

And like a black bolt of lightning, he raced in the door, a dog with a mission.  His momentary freedom squandered, all for a dried pig’s ear.

Pretty sure he thinks it was a good trade.


Tiff out.


kenju said...

Woe be unto you the day you have no cookies.

tiff said...

That'll never happen, Judy. I swear!

And even if it did? He came running at the PROMISE of cookies, not the actual thing itself. :)

Warped Mind of Ron said...

I have a sign that says, "Will sell soul for cookies!". So far I've had no takers.

Middle Girl said...

In the early days of having our 45 pound pooch she bolted loose of the leash a few times. The effort to rein a 45 pound pooch being so much more than that to rein an 18 pound pooch.

In the early days *I* took chase yelling at the top of my lungs. Which she took as a HIGH art game meaning more running.

I learned (pretty quickly) to one: hold tighter -and teach her not to pull quite so fervently. and two: to not freak out if she does get loose.

Now, even given the opportunity to bolt, she doesn't. Years, training, love, and treats all working in concert to keep us together.