A few months ago, my oldest was wanting a dog. As in, every time he caught my eye, he said, "Can we get a dog? When can we get a dog? I really, really, reeeeeeally think we should get a dog." I did what I could to put him off, considering the fact that we were living in my grandparents' house and it didn't seem like an appropriate time to take on another mouth to feed. He finally wore me down, and we got a puppy. The cutest puppy in the world.
I also enrolled the dog and the boy in puppy classes, because I thought it would be good for Warrick to be doing something a little social, and the pup needed to be Well Trained because I don't have the time, motivation or energy (or money) to deal with the destructiveness a puppy brings to the table.
So, somehow, this dog has been the best pet we have ever had. He rarely chews anything, he house trained himself, he's very clean, he loves the kids, he adores me (which, of course. Who doesn't?) (don't answer that), and he's very cute. He barks appropriately most of the time, although he is scared of toilets, bubbles and anything that makes a noise when he touches it (which, hilarious when he tried to eat this Christmas penguin thing the kids got out and it started singing and dancing...the dog is only six months old, but nearly had a stroke).
We moved into our own place a month ago. The fenced yard was a major selling point for us, because, ya know, kids and dog...they need boundaries. Our landlords live next door, their daughter lives on the other side of us, and their son lives behind. They are Very Nice People, and they have all kinds of random farm-type animals.
The first week here, our beloved dog went next door (to the daughter's house) and killed a chicken. Like, as if he had a List of Things To Do, and that was on it.
Doggy To Do List
1. Get my Own Yard
2. Pee on all the trees
3. Bark at the toilets
4. Murder poultry
Warrick got the dog home, then went to the neighbor's house and apologized, even offering to pay them back or work for them or something to make it up. (Bragging point: I did not tell him to do this, it was all done before I even knew about the chicken-killing, so my son pretty much wins.) After this, we established a schedule for the dog that kept him either in the house or in the fence at all times. This worked for a week, until Donovan (the three year old of DOOM) let the dog out of the house and then kindly opened the gate for him.
I noticed the door, couldn't find the dog, and just knew. Now, the thing is, it was raining that day. Not kind, gentle, soft rain...no, it was pouring (if you live in OK, it's the day people were being rescued from the giant ocean that used to be OKC). I had just changed into my baggiest, most comfy sweater, that is at least eight sizes too big for me (the sleeves go to my knees), because I had already gone out and been soaked, so I was cold.
I saw the dog right as he was crossing into the neighbors' yard. I yelled for him and he looked at me and you could see him making a decision...."hmmm...the Woman I Adore would like for me to come back, but SCREW THAT, these people have CHICKENS!"...and off he went. And I chased him. Through the first half of the yard, which was literally two feet of water, and the second half, which was about six inches of mud.
Ok, so, I don't run. I hate running. And I'm wearing giant clothes. And running (ok, tripping and crawling) through water and mud, yelling at the dog. To make matters worse, I hardly know these people, and they have a HUGE picture window overlooking their backyard (or mud pit), and Warrick couldn't think of a name for the dog. Why does that matter? Because, when he was trying to name him, he said, "Shucks, I can't think of anything." (Shut up, I have no idea how he learned to talk like The Beave) "Oh...I know, I'll name him Shucks!" So, back to my story, here's what the neighbors were seeing...new woman next door with the six kids wearing hobo clothes, running (even though, obviously, this person has no business running) through the water and mud in their backyard, yelling "Shucks, no! Shucks! SHUCKS!", as if I have just jumped out of Mayberry and haven't learned the new slang.
The dog looked at me a few times and went back to merrily chasing the chickens all over the yard. The chickens were terrified, making all kinds of racket and alternately trying to fly and run, which was counter-productive because they mostly just fell on their faces. The dog slipped under this tiny hole in the hen house, and I'm thinking this is good, because the chickens will run out, and he'll have to squeeze back through the hole and the chickens will have time to get away. Not so much. I crawled in there after him (a one-foot high opening over mud), just in time to be the only eye-witness to the latest strike of the serial chicken killer. I grabbed the dog, dragged him out, yelled at him (Shucks!), spanked him (shut-up, dogs get shot for this in the country, he needs to know), and hauled him up to the front door to say sorry. The entire time, he's got this huge grin on his face, tail wagging, and not giving a flying flip how much trouble he knows he's in. You can just see him thinking that was TOTALLY worth it, baby!!!
It did not occur to me to go home and change or anything before I knocked on their door to fess up. So there I am looking like someone who got caught in their comfy clothes by the fashion police and sentenced to death by drowning in mud, holding the most unapologetic dog EVER, and telling these poor people that my dog (who still won't stop grinning like a 13 year old boy who just discovered nekkid ladies) has murdered another of their chickens.
