I sat bolt upright in bed at 3:28 a.m. There were uneasy pacing noises coming from below and a sudden ka-thunk! as Jasper reared up and put his paws on the top of the gate.
A silence fell.
Then, out of nowhere, a howl. A quavering, high-note howl that lifted me out of bed. (The dog, he can keen with the best of them.)
I don't think my feet touched the stairs as I ran down. I forgot the gate at the bottom and rebounded onto the stairs (nasty ass bruise) but managed to throw him out the front door before his legs uncrossed.
Such is the single-mindedness of dogs that after ten minutes of
I tried to explain. "Doggie, it's four o'clock in the morning."
"It's dark out."
He whined and pranced. But... I drank dish soap! Because
"But I don't wanna.....oh, hell, give it to me."
He feinted and eye-rolled and did the butt-wag, overjoyed.
We played fetch for twenty minutes or so before I went back to bed. It was the least I could do.
On my way back upstairs, though, I detoured through the kitchen and tucked the bottle of dish-soap in a new higher spot.
Rosey and the Dog Of Very Little Brain? Are cut off.