Hidden Camera reveals the answer to the mystery of why the back door has been open every evening when we get home.  We were blaming it on Hamlet, the pig, due to his intellectual nature.  Instead, it turns out that our dumb-as-a-post Samoyed, Tundra, is an idiot savant when it comes to escaping!  This is a dog who's entire world disappears when you drape a towel over his head....

Timber the Chewie Whore

There's no polite way to put it. I have discovered that Timber the samoyed is a chewie whore.

I've been feeling quite under the weather lately and, as a result, have been spending as much time huddled under the covers as time will allow. Last night was no exception. I was feeling rather sorry for myself when Timber, uncharacteristically, jumped onto the bed and crawled his way across it until he was snuggled up next to me, his head under my arm. "Awww", I thought. Timber understands that I'm not feeling well and is trying in his doggy way to do what he can. I'm so naive. However, I'm not to be blamed, because Timber was demonstrating a level of subtly formally unknown to him.

As I gave him scritches, he turned himself over onto his back, stretching himself with little grunts and groans. Ok, this was pushing it, even for Timber. He has a massive coat and usually finds about 2 minutes on the bed more than he can handle before he gets too warm. Then a lightbulb, albeit a dim one, went on above my head. Toby was on the floor beside us, chewing on a piece of rawhide he'd managed to scrounge somewhere in the house. Timber didn't have one. Timber kept shooting glances at Toby whilst nudging me yet again. Darn it. In no way was my dog acting on his Lassie-like need to succor an ailing loved one. He just wanted a flippin' chewie! To test my theory I said, "Chewie?" Off the bed in a flash, I found him in the kitchen sitting eagerly next to the pantry door where said chewies are stored. Nice. My dog has learned to prostitute himself for treats.

Vet's Pets Aren't Perfect

*due to the graphic nature of this post, viewer discretion is advised*

ok...

So I'm getting home after the morning portion of my split shift at the clinic. As I headed up the sidewalk, I could hear a large, animate object hurling itself at the front door. This was NOT good. Timber wasn't in his crate, which means that SOMEONE, who shall remain nameless (temporarily) didn't shut the crate door properly! My stomach sank. I opened the front door and the white wonder (my Samoyed, Timber) flew past to do his thing on the front lawn. I entered the house to inspect the carnage. It appeared that Timber had gone from room to room wreaking havoc. He had vomited in the den (likely due to the excitement over our apparent largess in leaving him the whole house to himself). The guest bedroom had the pillows and covers stripped from the bed. The master bedroom had received the same treatment, with the added touch of dirty laundry being strewn around the carpet. The bathroom had the towels removed from the bars and the bathmat was missing. The main destruction was, of course, in the living room. Ah! THERE'S the bathmat! The TV Guide and a Reader's Digest had been shredded, but he spared the Harrowsmith Country Life magazine (good boy!). One of the cushions from one of the living room chairs has been annihilated. Yellow foam was scattered hither and yon around the room. He had dragged individually wrapped rolls of toilet paper (Costco brand) from the bathroom baskets into the living room, unwrapped them and chewed them to bits (I betcha THAT was fun). Dog toys were mixed into this debris, as well of one of my husband's $19.99 sneakers, mercifully untouched (though he ate one of $200 special order New Balance's merely 2 days ago!). I betcha Toby (my Silky Terrier) sat on the couch through all of this thinking, "Boy, are YOU gonna to be in trouble when mom gets home!" Of course the beast looked quite pleased with himself and couldn't understand why he was forced to sit on the deck and watch, through the glass bay doors, the cleanup of his object d'art and his mom leaving a voicemail for his father, berating him for his lack of crate closing abilities.
sigh......................