Hang in There!

Our back yard is enclosed with a tall wooden fence.  It’s a big yard, and Persie the Labrador loves it.  Our smaller bad dog Jack took about three minutes to discover that while the fence was tall, it was not short.  By which I mean that there are hundreds of possible exits for a small squirmy dog to leave our yard by going under the fence.  I tried to block the larger gaps with rocks, but once he realized there was a possible way out, there was no stopping him.

Because we haven’t yet gotten around to fencing off a small dog-bathroom area on the side of the house, this means that every single time Jack wants to go potty, I have to take him out on his leash.  This is an enormous pain in the ass.  But as Jack has no loyalty whatsoever, and seems convinced that we are holding him captive and keeping him from being reunited with his real family, letting him run free is not really an option.

A lot of people up here have electric fences, but that’s expensive and involves yet another shock collar for our stupid small dog.  I could run chicken wire around the entire back yard fence bottom, but how white-trashy is that?  I’ve tried tying Jack to a long tethered leash, but he hog-ties himself almost immediately, and then just lays bound on the ground waiting for us to come get him.

And then I had the best idea.  Something that would allow Jack to go out and go potty without me; something that would allow him to play with the girls in the back yard without close supervision; and something that will make me millions when you click here to buyone on amazon for your own escape artist dog.

Check it out:

Jack in his back-yard outfit.

For those of you wondering . . . Jack is delighted with his new outfit and bounces and jumps around the yard as though he is not wearing a large purple collar (not manly, I know, but that’s the only color they had in Jack’s size).  The kids in the neighborhood think he is adorable in his “Easter bonnet.”  As an added unexpected bonus, Jack is now able to catch every snack thrown in his general direction because the cone acts as a huge treat funnel to his mouth.  AND . . . Every time Jack comes to a hole through which he used to fit, he bangs his collar against it and then turns away.  Everybody’s happy.

Although I may be building something of a reputation as a small dog torturer in the neighborhood.  I have already had to offer explanations for the fact that Jack must sometimes wear a shock collar to control his incessant barking.  Just the other day, Jack was locked upstairs when a woman came to the door, and there was an audible angry dog shriek when he was shocked during her visit.  I pretended to have heard nothing unusual, but I know she heard it because I saw her eyes widen in surprise.

Anyway . . . I know those same neighborhood moms who questioned the shock collar are going to make inquiries about Jack’s latest fashion statement.

Maj says I shouldn’t worry about it because, “Everybody already thinks you’re weird, Mom.  There’s no point in trying to pretend that making your dog wear a plastic purple collar to play in the back yard is something regular people do.  Because it is so not.”

Everybody thinks I’m weird?

This wouldn’t be the first time I have had an awkward situation arise because of a dog’s cone, by the way.  Before the girls were born, we had a Dalmatian who shook her head against a coffee table and caused a blood vessel to rupture in her ear.  She woke the next day with one regular ear and one big round ear swollen to the size of an orange.  Surgery was required, and afterward, she had to wear one of those surgical collars.  Dalmatians are largish dogs, so it was a big white plastic collar.  Our Dalmatian (her name was Sophie) was sad and confused in her collar, and she used to follow me around the house, trying to keep her new and limited field of vision filled with me.  Sophie was forever losing me, spinning wildly to relocate me, and then running to catch up with me.  Somehow, she never gauged my location accurately, and she was forever crashing her cone into the backs of my legs at high speed.

I bruise very easily, if I haven’t already mentioned that.

So after a week of this, the backs of my thighs and calves were ribboned with curved dark purple and brown bruises.  One set for where the top of her cone was hitting me and one set for the cone’s bottom.

Weird, but not that big a deal.  I didn’t give it that much thought.

Even when my gynecologist called to confirm my next day appointment.

Even when I disrobed and wrapped myself in the idiotic paper robe.

It wasn’t until my feet were in the stirrups and I was staring at that stupid poster on the ceiling of a raccoon hanging from a tree that says “Hang in There!” that I realized that explanations might be in order.

But I couldn’t find the words.

If there was some sort of award for “most awkward silence in the history of the entire world,” I believe I would have that award hanging on my wall.

Along with my various other certificates of dubious achievement.