“Well, dog, it’s just you and me,” I said.
Coltrane turned and looked at me from where he stood at the front door, vigilantly keeping tabs on the local squirrel population.
Stacey had just left for the weekend, leaving me alone with the house, a fully-stocked fridge and our year old lab/shepherd mutt. This would be a great chance to lie around, surf the ’Net … maybe even get the bills paid and, yes, bond with the dog. After this urgent episode of Hawaii Five-O, of course.
Coltrane and I played tug-the-rope Saturday afternoon. We went on walks. We sacked out in front of the TV. He even rested quietly in the hallway while I paid the bills. And so went Saturday night, and Sunday. But things started to fall apart early Monday when I returned from my late shift at work.
Coltrane got on the dining room table. I raised my voice. Coltrane pulled a tissue out of the box on the end table. I squirted him with water. We called a truce for a few hours sleep.
Then the dog got back on the table, retrieved a plastic bottle and chewed it until its contents leaked all over the floor. The beast grabbed ears of Indian corn out of a decorative basket, shredded the husks and gnawed the corn off the cobs. The damn animal tore all over the house, body-checking me as I tried to vacuum up the mess. During a walk, the stupid 4-legged pain-in-the-butt’s mere presence touched off a three-block wide canine riot.
I called Stacey as I left for work Monday night:
“You can come home anytime now.”