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ENLARGE
Eileen Burmeister
Do you ever get the idea that your dog knows a lot more than he lets on? This question has been on my mind lately every time I observe Puddy, our border collie/beagle cross.
He was named after David Puddy, the Seinfeld character who was the witless boyfriend of Elaine — a man who was equal parts lovable and stupid. And the name fit, given that our cute little dog repeatedly has to be told simple things like “Get down off the dining room table!” And when he receives this simple command, he cocks his head to the side, as if to say, “Really? I’m not allowed on the great big wooden slab that doubles as your food place? Really? Since when?”
I mean, how could the same dog that has forced us to start spelling W-A-L-K because he goes bonkers when we say the word, how could he not understand “down?” I’ll tell you how. He’s slowly and methodically trying to drive me around the bend.
His madcap plan began two weeks ago when I had made two loaves of banana bread at night. I had to leave them to cool overnight, so I covered them with towels and shoved them to the back corner of the counter, an area that has historically been Puddy-safe.
So imagine my horror when I came downstairs in the morning to serve the bread, only to find an entire loaf covered in dog hair and gnawed around the edges, half-eaten. At first I thought it might have been my husband, Craig, since he’s up and out the door before anyone else, but then I quickly realized his hair is different from our dog’s (thank goodness). Then I finally spotted Puddy, curled up in a tight ball and trying desperately to avoid all eye contact. Oh, yeah, he was as guilty as sin.
Then a week later I came downstairs in the morning to hear him jumping off our reading chair in the front room — the same chair of which I’ve specifically said hundreds of times, “No, Puddy, DOWN!” And as I entered the living room (by now he had slinked back to his bed like the guilty dog that he is) I noticed something odd. One of our two couch pillows was on the reading chair where he had been sitting. So he was not only sitting on the forbidden chair, but he was also sitting on our pillow, the same one on which I place my head when I watch a movie. Gaaa!
To a germophobe like me, this idea alone can catapult me into years of therapy. But I love this mutt, and I would be so sad without him. My love for Puddy, coupled with the fact that my family would sooner see me out the door than the dog, allowed me to bravely soldier on through another day.
I reasoned that some poor family member had carelessly left the pillow on the chair without thinking, not knowing that Puddy would besmirch it with his bum. “I can get through this,” became my mantra as I pulled out the vacuum and tried to suck up all of the evidence of what became known as the “couch pillow defilement.”
Puddy got a firm talking-to and that was that. All was forgiven.
Until the next morning.
I made a point to check on him before I went to sleep for the night, verifying that the pillows were in their proper places on the couch, and he was on his dog bed on the floor and all was right in the world. So tell me, how is it that the same pillow was once again on the reading chair, covered in hair, and smelling like Puddy?
There were two possibilities: We either (1) had gremlins, or (2) Puddy was pulling the pillow down with his teeth, dragging it across the floor, hoisting it up on the chair, and plopping down on it — all with the full knowledge that this had the potential to push me over the edge.
So our dear, beloved Puddy is now sleeping in a kennel. Oh, yes, we let him out in the yard each day like any common criminal, where he can exercise or smoke a cigarette. But I have claimed back my living room and now declare it a Puddy-free zone.
Of course, I can’t enforce this by myself, a point driven home loud and clear the other day when I returned from the grocery store to find Puddy curled on the couch with Nathaniel watching TV, with one Puddy leg on (what else?) my pillow. And I’m pretty sure he smiled at me.
He was named after David Puddy, the Seinfeld character who was the witless boyfriend of Elaine — a man who was equal parts lovable and stupid. And the name fit, given that our cute little dog repeatedly has to be told simple things like “Get down off the dining room table!” And when he receives this simple command, he cocks his head to the side, as if to say, “Really? I’m not allowed on the great big wooden slab that doubles as your food place? Really? Since when?”
I mean, how could the same dog that has forced us to start spelling W-A-L-K because he goes bonkers when we say the word, how could he not understand “down?” I’ll tell you how. He’s slowly and methodically trying to drive me around the bend.
His madcap plan began two weeks ago when I had made two loaves of banana bread at night. I had to leave them to cool overnight, so I covered them with towels and shoved them to the back corner of the counter, an area that has historically been Puddy-safe.
So imagine my horror when I came downstairs in the morning to serve the bread, only to find an entire loaf covered in dog hair and gnawed around the edges, half-eaten. At first I thought it might have been my husband, Craig, since he’s up and out the door before anyone else, but then I quickly realized his hair is different from our dog’s (thank goodness). Then I finally spotted Puddy, curled up in a tight ball and trying desperately to avoid all eye contact. Oh, yeah, he was as guilty as sin.
Then a week later I came downstairs in the morning to hear him jumping off our reading chair in the front room — the same chair of which I’ve specifically said hundreds of times, “No, Puddy, DOWN!” And as I entered the living room (by now he had slinked back to his bed like the guilty dog that he is) I noticed something odd. One of our two couch pillows was on the reading chair where he had been sitting. So he was not only sitting on the forbidden chair, but he was also sitting on our pillow, the same one on which I place my head when I watch a movie. Gaaa!
To a germophobe like me, this idea alone can catapult me into years of therapy. But I love this mutt, and I would be so sad without him. My love for Puddy, coupled with the fact that my family would sooner see me out the door than the dog, allowed me to bravely soldier on through another day.
I reasoned that some poor family member had carelessly left the pillow on the chair without thinking, not knowing that Puddy would besmirch it with his bum. “I can get through this,” became my mantra as I pulled out the vacuum and tried to suck up all of the evidence of what became known as the “couch pillow defilement.”
Puddy got a firm talking-to and that was that. All was forgiven.
Until the next morning.
I made a point to check on him before I went to sleep for the night, verifying that the pillows were in their proper places on the couch, and he was on his dog bed on the floor and all was right in the world. So tell me, how is it that the same pillow was once again on the reading chair, covered in hair, and smelling like Puddy?
There were two possibilities: We either (1) had gremlins, or (2) Puddy was pulling the pillow down with his teeth, dragging it across the floor, hoisting it up on the chair, and plopping down on it — all with the full knowledge that this had the potential to push me over the edge.
So our dear, beloved Puddy is now sleeping in a kennel. Oh, yes, we let him out in the yard each day like any common criminal, where he can exercise or smoke a cigarette. But I have claimed back my living room and now declare it a Puddy-free zone.
Of course, I can’t enforce this by myself, a point driven home loud and clear the other day when I returned from the grocery store to find Puddy curled on the couch with Nathaniel watching TV, with one Puddy leg on (what else?) my pillow. And I’m pretty sure he smiled at me.
Eileen Burmeister is a writer who lives and works in Roseburg. In addition, she writes a humor column for a professional journal in Chicago.
