What a peaceful boy… as of 2 pm today.
This one-dog wrecking crew has destroyed our whole household routine, not to mention much of the household itself.
Most sighthounds like to hang with one another. Why they usually have a room of their own, in this case the two-couch haven called The Breezeway. Our house also had the unique advantage of what we called the “dog room,” a walled-off subsection of the garage where they could both eat and have unobstructed access to their own yard for running and playing in.
Since the missus went back to work after her immobile period, Raebert has destroyed practically everything that stands between him and the upstairs where he now insists he belongs. Here’s the door to the dog room:
Nothing stops me.
We used to be able to close the door to the dog room while leaving the door to the dog yard open, thus preventing the cats from spilling into the dangerous outside world. But Raebert destroyed the dog room altogether, not just the wall into the garage:
Total destruction.
You see, he has to get from the yard, through the dog room, through the garage, into the breezeway, where there is a hefty child’s gate with a complicated latch. And, yes, he solved that latch a long time ago but we put a locking bicycle cable on it and he seemed to accept that he couldn’t defeat it (even though he stole the first key and hid it under the sofa).
Child’s play.
Now he’s got the bit in his teeth, so to speak. He can open the gate in two minutes flat. He refuses to be outside longer than it takes to pee and poop, uh, about two minutes. He can go 12 hours or more without peeing, he can go without eating for days, and he has taken up residence in the upstairs (the only place he will eat), watching over me and waiting for mommy to return. He’s on a mission.
Did I say countermeasures? We tried to shore up the hole in the garage wall. Does it look convincing?
Holes in the wall screened over.
We also installed a baby gate in the upstairs hall, which works great because he has no desire to go downstairs.
They’re so much smarter than me. What am I to do? (uh, ignore the shape of the shadow.)
Battle of wits? More like an ambush…
But we’re hopeful. We’ve asked the FBI and the NSA for their expert help. They always know what to do, right?
P.S. Yes to both questions. He really is gigantic. And we love him to death.
P.P.S. If you prefer the pure positives of deerhounds, here’s a site I recommend heartily.
In. Credible. I had pictured the damage in my mind’s eye with your first post, but this hard evidence is far worse than I even thought it could be. And your description of the mental battle far surpasses this mere physical destruction.
That last shot of him, though — especially in conjunction with the famous mask on the back wall — that’s the one that gave me shivers.
I wish I was closer to you geographically, I’d swing by the local lumberyard and get some big, thick sheets of plywood. To batten down the hatches. Like, you know, for an impending hurricane. Which this sighthound appears to be.
We’re heading down to PA this Thursday for a brief visit — want me to ask the Planner if we can swing by? Or even just me?
That’s some big ass, Raebert.
Tree trunk legs notwithstanding, some of that damage looks awful chewy to me. Splintery. I could be wrong. And Raebert probably doesn’t care in any event. Just thought I should offer a non-expert opinion.
Hope the post-immobile period is going well.
His gums seem fine. Don’t know if that means he didn’t chew or if he’s just fucking superhuman. At the moment, leaning toward the latter.