I Work For A Dog. (No, seriously....)

So I got up this morning thinking I'd have myself a nice lil' ole work day. Problem is, I've got myself a six-month-old dachshund. Oh, he's cute as a bug. Yessir. And busy as a stinking bee. I cordoned off my den with pet fencing, careful not to twist an ankle in the ocean of pet toys on the hardwoods.

Now, what I'm about to relate is (mostly) true. I opened the door to the laundry room, where I expected to find him, as usual, enthroned on the red pillow I keep in his play yard. Instead, I found a play yard that had been manipulated into a question mark shape (don't ask me, I don't know how), with the beautiful red pillow soaked from being dipped in a generous water dish (I never want the little darling to get thirsty in the night.) The towel from his bath last night had been pulled a couple of inches into the enclosure, adding to the Van Gogh-esque quality of the sight. I can't even.

I took Baxter to the backyard to do his "bidness," as we call it in the South ("business" for the rest of you all.). He did half of it and jumped back on the deck. I retrieved him, carried him into the bowels of the wet yard and set him back down again. Rinse, repeat. I then gave up and we went back inside. Just about right away he set about leaving a small jewel in the formal dining room. That's right, the formal dining room. The room that I furnished this past year with pride. The over-sized table, new china cabinet, all of that. (No, we DON'T ever eat in there, but that's entirely beside the point. I would have my southern housewife card revoked if I didn't have that room.) I responded to this (all-to-frequent) event with a hail of words I would never use in Sunday school and ran outside with the little darling. He enjoyed a sniff-about, did nothing and came back in. Back into the question mark pen, which I had yanked into a nice oval by this time. Have I mentioned that I have done no work to this point in the narrative? None. Unless you count all of the exercise I'd gotten, but I didn't need a journalism degree to do that.

After a few minutes, during which time I tried to set up work supplies in the now fenced-in den, I retrieved Baxter from the question mark. Back into the backyard we went. He sniffed promisingly and then bolted for the porch. I retrieved him, placed him back into the bowels of the yard. This time he hesitated as I hung on every circle, every sniff, every step of those signature short legs. Just as my hopes soared, he flew for the porch. I retrieved him again. He finally did what we had come for.

Now we were both settled into the fenced-in family room. Just as I began to try and unscramble the work day, setting my sails in a productive direction, my fragile concentration was shattered by the unmistakable sound of teeth on wood. Seems the corner of the baseboard molding needed reshaping and Baxter was the man for the job. More non-Sunday-school words, more fluster. More frazzle.

At this point I did something that was just plain stupid. Something about as productive as spitting into a fierce wind. In Alaska. In the winter. I posted in a dachshund lover's group asking for advice for a work-at-home dachshund owner whose dog is always pooping and peeing and chewing. Now, if you know much about the internet, you know that, well, it's populated by strangers. And some of them are strange. Before I was hit with a barrage of  A) suggestions I had tried three months ago 47,000 times or B) suggestions that a person who didn't want pooping, peeing and chewing in the house should NEVER entertain the "adoption" (you CANNOT say purchase or acquisition) of a dog, or C) suggestions that I will burn in hell for not liking all of those things or D) death threats, I took the post down.

Right now my little dog is resting comfortably, while I peck away. I love him dearly but, let's face it, even if I didn't, I'd have to have a dog by my side on the screened porch in good weather, a glass of tea in my hand (alright you accuracy-sticklers, for me it's always a cup of flavored coffee). A true southerner doesn't face life without a faithful dog.