Doggie Door Drama

Seymour likes to play stupid (or play me for stupid) - like "Oh, I don't know how to go out the doggie door. Please open the back door for me". He does this about 10 million times a day. He comes jingling over to me and either sits staring at me or crosses his back legs - I get the message! When I get up and walk the long way to the door and open it, I have to pretend I'm also going out or he won't leave the house. I take a few nonchalant steps outside, like I'm getting ready to relax on the one chair available - the broken anti-gravity chair.

Sometimes he falls for it and hurries out the door, while I hurry in the door and close it. When he is tricked like that, it's amazing that he can come in the doggie door with no problem. I am getting really strong legs (oh, yeah, I can feel the burn) thanks to the multiple sit-to-stand exercises I do during the day. I'll admit there are a few additional sit-to-stand-and walk to the frig exercises I also partake in - due to the extra hunger I feel after all of the exercise Seymour puts me through.

But come nightfall, Seymour completely changes his tactic. He starts out by pretending to sleep in the dining room, instead of beside me on the couch. Then, he leisurely stands up (glances my way, I expect), stretches and quietly heads for the doggie door like he's going out for his last cigarette. It took me a few times to realize what he was up to. He knew that a raccoon had taken up residence under my shed and it didn't come home until dark. He was aware that I would catch on and not let him go out, so he did it so smoothly that he was out the door - and under the shed before I realized he wasn't blissfully sleeping under the dining room table.

Sometimes I don't even know he is outside until I get a call from a neighbor saying "your lunatic dog has been barking for the past 30 minutes". Once he is under that shed, nose-to-nose with the raccoon, there is no way to get him out. I've tried turning the hose on them, shoving a rake under the shed, doing a Mexican hat dance inside the shed directly over them, whistling and even bringing out his favorite treat - bacon. Nothing stops him. I pray that he goes hoarse, but my prayers are never answered. I finally give up, go in the house, turn up my TV, and reconcile to myself that my dog will soon die at the little hands of a pissed-off raccoon.

Just when I start to wonder if the tightness in my chest means I should call 911 or mix myself a big boozy drink, Seymour casually walks back in through the doggie door and goes back to his blanket. No panting, no injuries, and no raccoon chasing him.

To Seymour, it's just another beautiful night in the neighborhood - it's time to lick those balls and go to sleep. He doesn't understand why I am heading to the liquor cabinet instead of bed.