The Train Wreck

I get to work, unlock the front door and start to laugh.  I can’t help but admire the sheer totality of destruction on the other side of the door. 

 

The front hall is littered with pieces of cardboard and shredded paper towels.  A trail of Angel Soft is draped crookedly from the landing to the bottom of the stairs.  A prized imitation orchid plant has been thoroughly de-petaled, its leaves chewed off and left in random  bunches the length of the Oriental runner.  In my office, the couch has been de-nuded with pillows scattered all over the floor.  A ceramic pot of what had been a healthy ivy lies in pieces amid several piles of dirt and roots.  The raccoon toy with the noisemaker has been demolished, the wastebasket overturned, the soggy remains of a rawhide chew lies forlornly in the middle of the floor.  In Michael’s office, a handful of magazines and an entire telephone book have been torn to pieces.  Several portions of the carpet have been pulled loose and chewed to the matting, an entire section of baseboard is missing – later I will find it stashed behind the couch along with several empty dog food containers, a pair of blue jeans, and a curling iron – and the whole floor is a debris field of something that was once plastic or rubber but is now unidentifiable.  On closer inspection, it appears to be a mix of curly telephone cord and Tupperware.

The puppy trots through all this devastation bright eyed and perky while I step carefully and lead him and the other dogs to the side door and coax them outside.  I don’t have the moral fortitude to go upstairs.

Well, I tell him as he high-steps through the still wet grass, enthusiastically chasing the cur dog from one side of the yard to the other, You’ve done yourself proud, you have.  You’re a regular one puppy train wreck.

There are footsteps behind me and I take a deep breath, reminding myself that this is probably not the best moment to laugh or point out that I warned him.  The puppy now has found a sock and is dragging it awkwardly around the yard.  He can’t quite manage to keep from stepping on it and he keeps getting tangled up, tripping and falling like a tiny, un-graceful tumbler.  After several tries, he finally just flops to the ground and lies there, content to hold the sock in his mouth and stare up at the sky.  It’s comical and more importantly it provides a little misdirection and I’m free to laugh. 

It’s possible, Michael says a little wearily, this wasn’t one of my better decisions.

He looks as frayed and disheveled as the carpet – I decide to keep that to myself as well – and I do my best to be sympathetic as he chronicles the second floor destruction, everything from the ravaged trash to the half-eaten Gucci dress shoes to the gnawed-on legs of the antique table in the hall. He punctuates this sad tale with deep sighs, slumped shoulders and a defeated look.  I know he loves these dogs and loves the act of rescuing them.  It’s the reality and demands of rescuing that are giving him so much trouble.

I could redeliver my lecture about dogs not coming pre-trained, about the sacrifices an animal owner must make, about the usefulness of kennels and crates, about how dogs need structure and  boundaries.  I could tell him again that they don’t housebreak themselves, that they can’t be expected to know to adhere to his schedule, that they have to be taught with patience and follow through and consistency.  I could suggest again that confinement isn’t cruel and unusual, that they can’t be blamed for what they don’t understand and that it’s his job to teach them, that just loving and saving them isn’t enough and that he expects too much from them.  Knowing that it would fall on deaf ears, I just shrug.

He’s three months old, I say, trying not to sound exasperated, What did you expect?

I don’t know, he admits with another huge sigh, but not this……..this……….nuclear winter!  

His house may be on the verge of ruination.

He might be very nearly broke with no prospects in sight.

His heart might swell to the point of exploding to take in these cast off animals.

But his flair for the dramatic is still intact.