In addition to eating a matchbook this weekend (which was really nothing compared to her recent rat poison binge and subsequent Hydrogen Peroxide-induced purge--no exaggeration there), Zelda has had two accidents this week, one at Tod's parents' house (on both the couch and Tod's leg), and then one at my house this evening (on the ottoman that she must not like me having). I know how to clean so it's really not a problem, and at the end of the day, it's all just stuff. I know that. Plus, it's not her fault; it's mine. And, of course, she still has a lot of puppy in her, not to mention that at 12 pounds--okay, maybe 13--her bladder can't be much larger than a ping pong ball. But I'm a problem solver, and I really want to solve this problem. I want to be able to trust that my dog will not eat some mysterious object and die when I am not watching. I want to trust that curiosity will not kill the
But, at bottom, I guess maybe all of this is just a good lesson in patience. She's just not there yet, right? And that's what they make crates for after all. I just need to trust that she'll get there eventually and love her all the same during the journey. But if you ask me--which clearly Zelda isn't--it seems like taking one step forward and two steps back, or even taking two steps forward and one step back, is not really the best way to get anywhere.
Zelda, here's what I have to say: I love you dearly. I love how you see the world--and everything and everyone in it--as nothing but an opportunity for fun. And I love the passion and energy that you put into having fun. But the accidents, well, they're not so fun, and I don't love them, even though I know they're bound to happen. So maybe you can work on just spacing your accidents out a little bit more and more until eventually they seem not to exist at all. In the meantime, I will not yell (too much) at you, and I will not hurt you. I promise. I will love you, and I will always have treats for you. But please know this: when you have an accident, I definitely reserve the right--and whether this is passive-agressive, just plain agressive, or merely OCD, I neither know nor care--to gather up all of your favorite fuzzy babies--yes, even the ones with missing ears, legs, and tails--and toss them into the washing machine for a good thorough cleaning even when I'm pretty sure that you have just gotten them to smell the way you like them to smell since their last trip through the spin cycle. Oh, and just so you know, your crate bed and your favorite chipmunk-covered fleece blanket are going in there, too. And yes, they will smell they way that I want them to smell when I am finished with them. Then, I guess I'll give them back to you so we can start this whole process over again. The circle of life wins every time.
Oh, she knows alright. She spent the first five minutes of tonight's spin cycle resting on the tile by the machine. And that lasted until . . . she remembered the basket of tennis balls downstairs. All in a good day's work, huh, Zelda?