Wag and the Gang



Wag and I hosted my grand-dogs on the Fourth of July. (Remind me never to do that again!) The dogs, a something-poo and a labradoodle and, of course, my darling Wag, a full-sized golden retriever, had never met as a threesome and there was a lot of sniffing and snorting to check out each other’s body parts. (I thank my lucky stars that people don’t greet new friends this way.) Anyway, Wag was polite and let them drink from his bowl before doing the sniff routine again. I thought they would like some biscuits and fed them each one. They probably would have liked more, but I thought the something-poo was a little chubby so limited them to one. They scarfed down the biscuits in a hurry and then started searching for something, I wasn’t sure what, but I thought perhaps chew-toys.


They eased up their search mode and settled down for a little nap, six feet apart. Finally quiet—no sniffing, no snorting, just lying on the floor like nice little doggies—I knew this was my chance!


With three dogs, I needed three toys, one each. A reward for their good behavior! I headed out to the grocery, which is a quick five minutes away, even in heavy traffic. I donned my mask and tiptoed out. I didn’t want to cause separation anxiety.


I was back in ten minutes flat just as I had planned, expecting to find the pups as I had left them, sound asleep. Ha! Not a chance! In that short time, they had unearthed the stocking caps I knitted for charity, the ones I work on when I’m not writing Wrinkly Bits. In my knitting bagI have a dozen or more skeins of yarn awaiting my knit-purl routine. The trio had discovered the skeins and tried to tie each other up with my yarn. It was over, under, around the furniture as well as caught in their collars and paws. They stopped what they were doing and stood at attention when I walked in, as well they should. The three of them started commenting, but dog talk is not my first language, so I had no idea which dog to blame for starting this melee.


Wag slunk behind the couch and began to chew his toenails, which I took as fear that I would stop feeding him or otherwise punish the innocent bystander. The two-year-old labradoodle, a teenager in the worst way, faced me square on, as if saying, I done real good, Grandma, right?The something-poo grabbed the bag of chew toys from my hand, slid under the bed, and began gnawing even before I had unwrapped them.


I sighed, wondering why I had agreed to this, picked up the yarn, and sat down to knit, but then the fireworks started, and you don’t want to hear about the rest of my evening.