Scratching at the door

Well, it turns out that either our hearing was bad or Daisy had indeed waited a few minutes for us to return. Only a few. Then she realized that she had been abandoned. Trapped.

When we did get back a half hour later, she was right by the door. So happy to see us! All seemed well, until one of us turned to close the door. She must have stood right there, and waited. Our steps faded. She looked up and up. The door was tall. She nosed around for a way out. And when the thing didn't open on its own like it usually did, she tried to claw it open.

The back of the door, which we ourselves had painstakingly painted, coat after coat, was not a pretty sight. Tom was ready to return Daisy. We both knew, however, that this was not an option.

We thought perhaps she wasn't really that unable to stay alone. Perhaps those dogs walking way over in the field beyond our house had caused Daisy's fright. So we overlooked the scratches on the door.

The next time I had to leave the house and Daisy alone in it -- just for a half hour, I reasoned -- I strung up sheets all along the windows. I closed the shoji panel in my office so she could sleep under the desk, her usual spot. I tiptoed away and crossed my fingers.

Oh boy. When I returned, it was as if a tornado had struck. My desk chair had been flipped around, the lamp knocked over. There were shoji pieces all over the floor like tinker toys. The wooden desk had been completely cleared of papers, phone, stapler, letter holder and the other miscellaneous junk that had piled up. The surface was pristine, except for two long scratches. And my lap top computer -- well, never to be used again. It looked as if Daisy had climbed on the chair and pulled on the shoji in order to get out the window. But the seat twisted around under her weight. Quickly she tried to brace herself on the computer desk, instead crushing two big pawprints in the laptop keyboard. That was pretty scary, so she must have jumped on another, big wooden desk off to the side. All those papers and things? Well, when you're in a hurry, you just let the debris fall where it may.

There was no point to yelling at Daisy or crying at the loss of my $2,000 computer. So I jumped on the desk myself, surveyed the damage, and broke into laughter.

Left alone

What we did see next that day were two deer up on the ridge, ghostly in the fog. Hmmm. We could only hope that their path didn't cross the bobcat's.

By now you have probably surmised that Daisy was still in the car when I returned. She had fallen asleep and showed no signs of distress. She did, however, let it be known that she had completely lost her trust in me. She would not let me out of her sight for the next couple of days, following me from one room to the other and blocking the door if I showed any signs of leaving. Once in a while she would pointedly lick her ankle to show where she had bruised it when I had tried to force her into the car.

Normally we take Daisy everywhere. We learned she had separation anxiety about the time we discovered she had no social skills with other dogs. One afternoon we left her in the house for about a half hour to get the mail. We couldn't walk her with us, after all, because the post office is a gathering place for our little town's residents, who generally bring their dogs along with them. As we departed, we listened for barks or other sounds of anxiety. Nothing. No whimpers. No scratches. It seemed she was okay.

Well, we discovered a half hour later, not exactly.

Incident at the back of a car

Imagine trying to wrestle a small steer into the back of a Volvo station wagon. A soft, furry, smallish steer. There I was, trying to lift Daisy into the back of the car and she would have nothing of it.

She pushed against the bumper with one paw, against the car floor with another. She wiggled and made herself very heavy. One hundred thirty-five pounds heavy. When she finally decided to give in and jump, I lost control and she lost balance. Quickly I reached down in an effort to soften the fall, managing to cradle her rear about an inch above the cement floor. I let her stand. She tried to run. I heaved her up again, front paws first, then with a deep breath, up with the back. She wiggled and resisted with all her might. After I accidentally pinched her skin in a second near fall, she yelped piteously and got in.

No, Daisy does not like to be left alone. The ol' car in the garage trick worked a couple of times. She'd jump in eagerly, we'd close up the rear door and sneak quietly away. Now she might head toward the car with pleasure, but with a glance around the vicinity she quickly sizes things up. She makes an abrupt U-turn and tries to make a break for freedom.

I was about to be late for an assignment, so I opened the car windows, propped open the doors, and opened the garage a little so air could flow through. A gate behind the back seat would keep Daisy from slipping out and getting into trouble.

Usually we just take her. But I was worried about the heat over the hill where the fog had lifted. I didn't want to leave her in a scary parking lot or on an urban street. I knew she would be safer at home, but Daisy evidently did not.

After the yelp, I felt terrible. I gave Daisy a hug and a bite of canned salmon for consolation. Then I shut the door. But I worried. Daisy seems able to escape anything. And I wouldn't have hurt her intentionally for the world.