To catch a thief
I sensed he was behind me, but didn’t turn back to see. There had been something about the look in his eye as we passed that made me certain the small silver-haired guy was going to turn around and follow me.
I was carrying nothing of value–just a pair of dirty knee socks I was bringing in from the car. But apparently, those socks were just what he wanted.
I could hear the light scrape of his footsteps and knew he was near. I felt myself tense, even though I was bigger than him.
When he was a few feet away, he sprang. For some crazy reason, I tried to hang on to the sock, but it was useless. My attacker was crazed, growling and wild-eyed, all four feet planted firmly on the carpet, claws digging in. He shook hard, left and right, backing up as he pulled. When I heard the fabric tear, I let go.
He began to run, looking back once over his shoulder, likely anticipating a chase. But I’ve experienced enough of these pup attacks to know he’d soon lose interest and abandon his loot. Of course, the loot would likely have holes in it by then, but I wasn’t up for another fight. I’d already thwarted his attempted theft of my purse, my gloves, a bookmark, and a CD. The socks, he could have. But he didn’t want just the socks, he wanted the fight and the chase
Mere theft no longer provides him enough of a kick. He’s become a thrill-seeker. The kind of dog that—even though he’s lost enough blood that he should know better by now—continues to stealthily sneak up on sleeping cats when their tail is dangling to give it a yank hard enough to clang a school bell. The kind that will steal food when he’s not hungry. That will bark furiously at the door to lure our other dog from his prime sleeping spot so he can lay there himself. And he’s the kind that knows how to work cute to ensure his survival.
If he were human, he’d be a flagrant shoplifter, the kind who attempts to make it out of the store with something like a big screen TV or a canoe.
His thieving ways have become so clever that my once vast shoe collection has been reduced to one closer to that of a straight male. After the pup mastered opening my closet doors, I was forced to invest in hanging shoe bags. Once he mastered lower level shoe-bag extraction, I was forced to use only the bag’s upper slots.
If I spent much money on shoes, I’d be far more upset, but since my footwear often costs less than a pack of rawhide bones, there’s been no significant loss.
Still, his destruction of all but black shoes so diminished my choices that for days I ended up dressing as though I were in mourning. (The pup apparently believes black tastes like licorice, one of few tastes he’s not yet acquired.)
I’ve developed the habit of referring to him as The Pup, but my daughter rather appropriately named him “Chewie.” He’s lived up to his name, although if he continues, we might be changing it to “Gummie” before long.
In spite of his shortcomings, Chewie has been a truly good dog. He’s forced Murry, a full-blooded couch potato, to get off his tail and exercise. He’s been a great sleeping companion to his mistress, Celeste. And he’s livened up our household in a way I would’ve once sworn wasn’t needed. But in a way I’d swear we couldn’t live without now.
