Hell on Steroids

There's a rustle behind me and when I turn to look, I see the puppy has latched onto a sofa pillow easily twice his size and is determinedly dragging it across the ceramic tile floor.  He sees me see him and immediately tries to run but it's an awkward burden and he doesn't make much progress.  I sigh, tell him "No!" and take it away from him.  He gives me a pained look, trots off, and in just a few minutes returns  with a four foot piece of chewed up weatherstripping.  After I take that away, he disappears again but presently I hear more rustling and when I go to investigate, I find him doing his best to carry off a 12 pack of shrink wrapped paper towels. He's already on the third stair step, nearly halfway to the landing, and looking bright eyed and proud of himself.

Well, I say, You've got ambition, I'll give you that.

He drops his prize and tilts his head at me.  There's expectation in his eyes.

You know, I tell him, Cute is the only thing standing between you and a lethal injection.

He drops the ragged edge of the plastic wrap and sits, still looking at me with an alert, lopsided puppy grin.

Give it here, I say but when I reach for it, he snatches it back and we're suddenly in a tug of war.  The plastic rips and a half dozen rolls of paper towels come loose and skitter down the stairs.  Before I can get to them, he's gotten one in his teeth and given it a violent shake, pulling it free from its roll.  There's not much I can do except watch - giving chase would only encourage the game -  as he scrambles down the hall, darts into my office and through the classroom, leaving a trail of towels in his wake.  Eventually I manage to corner him under a folding chair by the double doors and realizing there's no way out, he finally surrenders.

But of course this is all only in the first half hour of my day and I fear he's just getting warmed up.  Before the day is over, I will have rescued a makeup kit bag, two dvd's, a spray bottle of Febreze, a pair of bluejeans, an entire cardboard box of bank statements, several assorted but mismatched socks, a Bic lighter, half a roll of plastic trash bags, a section of carpet matting, a handful of permanent markers, a package of UPS shipping stickers and a roll of electrician's tape.  All that's missing is a partridge in a pear tree.

This is not a dog, I tell Michael as I pry open the puppy's jaws to retrieve a thoroughly mangled pack of mentholated cough drops, This is a Weapon of Mass Destruction cleverly disguised as a dog.

Not wanting to give up his latest trophy, the puppy hangs on and growls.  I give him a smart pop on the nose and he gives me an aggrieved look before dropping the cough drops and launching himself back into my arms where he knocks me over and begins to smother me with kisses.  It's like trying to catch and restrain a hyper affectionate eel.

Michael is running errands when I leave so I herd the dogs outside one last time on my way out.  I open the door and the old pit lumbers out.  The chihuahua follows, snootily milling around the flower beds and trying not to get her feet wet.  The cur dog comes last, stumbling with each step and trying mightily to dislodge the puppy who has gotten a death grip on his hind leg.  Both are flailing and growling like flying monkeys but the cur dog wins, flinging the puppy off with one violent, final shake.  The puppy immediately tears across the lawn and hurls himself at the old pit in a full, frontal assault.  There's some initial bobbing and weaving, a couple of laps around the lawn furniture and several choke holds before the pit loses patience and takes the puppy down, sending him sprawling with one swing of his massive head.  The whole thing takes on a slightly cartoonish and acrobatic quality and I find myself thinking that this must be what wrestling looks like.  Then, with the kind of persistence you rarely see anymore, the puppy turns and begins to stalk the chihuahua.  Her sixth sense kicks in almost immediately and though there's a good ten feet between them, she whirls, snarls, and curls her lip in warning. The puppy, having no more sense than a breadfruit, charges and in a matter of seconds the fur is flying and it sounds like hell on steroids.

Salvation - also known as distraction - comes in the form of the mail truck.  As soon as it rounds the corner and pulls up to the curb, all four dogs unite in a show of solidarity and rush the fence like the hounds of hell.  Our mailman knows his part in this well and cheerfully calls all four by name as he walks up the drive. By the time I get them back inside, lock the door and reach the hall, the puppy is already at the front door, straining mightily to reach the mail slot and kidnap another a batch of mail.  He sees me and gives me a guilty look then seizes an L.L. Bean catalogue between his teeth and skitters up the staircase.

I lock up and leave and the last thing I hear is the mailman shouting Hi Yo, Silver! Away! and a thunderous chorus of barking from the upstairs windows.

Sometimes I yearn for those pre-puppy thrilling days of yesteryear.