Our dog, Chloe, is crate trained...more or less. Less than more.
Every night she goes contentedly into her crate (okay, we put it on the edge of the bed where she can't get a toehold, duck her head, tuck in her paws and try to shove her into it while she somehow manages to grow eight more legs and cover herself in grease. Imagine trying to stuff a giant squid into a thimble and you're halfway there.
"I was framed, I'm telling you. I'm innocent," she protests vehemently.
Every day, her first order of business is to liberate every item in her crate. "Run and be free," she tells Bedtime Bear and Mr. Winkles as she tosses them hither and yon around the bedroom. "Quick, everyone over the wall!"
Oddly enough though, given her feelings regarding anyplace with walls and a door, she allows herself to be put in her playpen during the day with nary a peep (okay, so we have to leave treats, toys, the TV remote, phone, laptop and gold Am Ex card). Which is why I was excited to find a travel version made of canvas and mesh. No need to worry about our precious bundle of hair frying herself on a lamp wire or ingesting a couch, bed or other tempting and tasty hotel room paraphernalia that they have for the sole purpose of luring good little puppies down the wicked path of ruin.
Chloe was not quite as excited about it as I.
Where I saw a safe and familiar environment, she saw a network game show challenge. It was like watching Win It In A Minute as she charged the sides, teeth, hair and paws flying about in a frenzy while she hurled all six pounds of herself repeatedly at the sides until it resembled a No. 2 pencil instead of an octagon.
She proudly looked up at me from atop the mound of pee pads, dishes, toys and bed crammed into a six-inch space at one end as I surveyed the damage that hurricane Chloe had caused.
"Look what I did, mom," she panted excitedly. "And for my next trick, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!"
Believing myself able to outsmart the dog, I wedged the playpen between the bed, nightstand, ottoman, four chairs, eight maids amilking, seven swans aswimming and a partridge in a pear tree. Satisfied that would hold her, Tim and I went out to dinner.
Upon our return, I put my finger to my lips and shushed Tim as we silently crept back into the room and peered down into the playpen...to see nothing!
"Chloe, Chloeeeee," we called imagining masked marauders dog napping our precious baby and holding her for a ransom. Quick, where was the number for the navy seals, the green berets or the A-Team?
Suddenly,we were hit from behind by a small, fuzzy projectile of joy. "Aren't you proud of me? See, I escaped! Watching all those David Copperfield specials really paid off, huh?"
Incredulous, we examined the playpen, looking for the escape hatch. It seemed improbable that she had scaled the four foot sides, and the zippered door was still firmly zippered shut, but upon closer inspection, we discovered that one of the velcro straps joining the sides had been opened. What we still can't figure out is how, since it was closed on the outside of the playpen with a buckle! Like any good magician though, she refuses to share her secrets.
Still thinking I was maybe at least as smart as she, I brought the playpen with me to visit my parents two weeks ago. This time, I not only surrounded it with massive pieces of furniture, I sprayed all the velcro closures with a bitter apple dog deterrent. Ha! I win!
Yeah. For about five minutes.
I should have just dunked the whole pen in bitter apple, because when she found she couldn't push the sides or bite the velcro, she simply latched her sharp little puppy teeth onto the mesh and pulled. Faster than you can say origami, she had twisted the shape into something beyond all recognition containing about four inches of real estate.
"Help! Help!" she yipped, looking balefully at me as though this were all my fault (the mother always gets blamed)."Maybe I should have said bibbidy bobbidy boo instead of abracadabra."
Totally defeated, I was investigating other options like crying, calling Tim up and whining, calling the Super-Nanny and whining, or sending a note up the chimney for Mary Poppins to find, when my father declared he could contain Chloe. Foolish, foolish man.
"We'll close the baby gate to the family room(which is at the back of the house)" he rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist, "unfold the pen, brace it against a few chairs, the bookcase, velcro it to the floor and tie it off. There. That ought to hold her." He stepped back, overly pleased with himself.
"I don't know..." I shook my head. He clearly didn't understand who he was up against.
"She's a dog," he scorned. "If she can figure out how to get out of there, I'll shake her paw tonight."
She met us at the front door when we returned, paw extended, head cocked to one side, superior little smile on her lips. I just wish we had bet some money on it.
So now the challenge was on. Chloe vs my father. They each took it as a personal challenge to thwart the other. It was kind of like watching Wile E Coyote trying to outsmart the Roadrunner. You just knew that whatever he's ordered from Acme is going to blow up in his face. I kept warning my dad that he was outgunned, but he was nothing if not determined.
In the end though, my father did win. He only had to rearrange the family room furniture, add the kitchen chairs, table, stove and refrigerator as reinforcements, tie off the playpen with kitchen twine, put the lock on the baby gate, and bolt a few things down to the floor. Chloe was finally safe, and trapped in her playpen.
Victory came at a price though,which was that while she couldn't get out of the family room, we couldn't get in. No family room. No TV. His system made Fort Knox look like it was was secured with a flimsy latch and a battered "Beware of Dog" sign.
Even though she was well and truly trapped, somehow, I think that putting him to so much trouble might have been Chloe's next trick all along.
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