Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Home Alone
Aubrey has what our vet has kindly termed "separation anxiety." The practical meaning of this is that she freaks out and destroys a bunch of our stuff pretty much every time we leave the house. And while it may seem like we should just dog proof to avoid, say, finding the tattered remains of our copy of "Ragtime" all over the bedroom floor, that has in practice proved difficult. Because each time I empty out a shelf or seal a drawer shut, she seems to find some new location to invade. A few weeks ago I found she had figured out how to open the cabinet I keep my actual hard copy music in; there were copies of Michael Jackson and Paula Abdul on audiocassette strewn all over the place. And once I effectively shut that down with a contraption I devised out of rubber bands and paper clips, she figured out how to get up some file folders off the top of my desk and throw their contents everywhere. All this while ignoring the dozens of dog toys sitting at various easily accessible points around the room. I just pray she never discovers the joys of arson.
The best part is that she has us convinced this is all some sort of mental disorder caused by missing us too much. So we feel sorry for her instead of, say, selling her to a cosmetics company for testing. Of course, I've had work colleagues who've managed the same thing. No one better dare ask brittle Angela from accounting about those TPS reports or there is going to be hell to pay.
Aubrey has what our vet has kindly termed "separation anxiety." The practical meaning of this is that she freaks out and destroys a bunch of our stuff pretty much every time we leave the house. And while it may seem like we should just dog proof to avoid, say, finding the tattered remains of our copy of "Ragtime" all over the bedroom floor, that has in practice proved difficult. Because each time I empty out a shelf or seal a drawer shut, she seems to find some new location to invade. A few weeks ago I found she had figured out how to open the cabinet I keep my actual hard copy music in; there were copies of Michael Jackson and Paula Abdul on audiocassette strewn all over the place. And once I effectively shut that down with a contraption I devised out of rubber bands and paper clips, she figured out how to get up some file folders off the top of my desk and throw their contents everywhere. All this while ignoring the dozens of dog toys sitting at various easily accessible points around the room. I just pray she never discovers the joys of arson.
The best part is that she has us convinced this is all some sort of mental disorder caused by missing us too much. So we feel sorry for her instead of, say, selling her to a cosmetics company for testing. Of course, I've had work colleagues who've managed the same thing. No one better dare ask brittle Angela from accounting about those TPS reports or there is going to be hell to pay.
