In the Penalty Box
Our dog, Audrey, is in the penalty box. Again.
We've crated the dogs anytime we go out, ever since two Decembers ago, when Audrey helped herself to the Christmas cookies baked by our neighbor and demolished a bag of popcorn kernels. It took two months to find all the kernels.
She has been on good behavior for almost a year, so Tony put some hook latches on the pantry doors, and we let the dogs roam the house all the time.
That was a bad idea.
Three nights ago, Tony breaded his chicken with oatmeal. Audrey loves oatmeal. And she loves chicken. After dinner, Tony dumped the chicken bones and the tinfoil he used to bake the chicken in the trash. Then we left. We came home to an overturned trash can with the dog-proof latch unlatched, and trash scattered all over the kitchen floor. The tinfoil was shredded into tiny pieces, and the chicken bones were gone.
I considered an emergency vet trip for at least a millisecond. This is the dog who survived coffee and chocolate. And then wanted pizza.
Last night, we came home to an unlatched pantry, and empty bags of granola and uncooked quinoa on the office floor. Which were good food choices on her part. Her poop was gooey from her food raid on the trash can, and now she expels quinoa-covered and granola-filled poop that is easier to pick up. Sorry if that is too much information.
When I stop laughing, and if her poop doesn't go back to normal by Monday, I promise to be a good pet parent and take her to the vet.
