The Puppy Pokey

The Puppy Pokey

“Life is unfair.”

                                                                                                                     -John F. Kennedy

Doomed. Destined to join the ranks of Sydney Carton, Edmond Dantès, Jean Valjean, Billy Budd, Dr. Richard Kimball, and Paddington Bear. I hope someone writes a novel about this. Mmm… I wonder who would play me in the movie.

Another unsettling stain on the history of mankind- the horror of the unfair administration of justice, indiscriminately applying an unjust law to another innocent victim. I am not Carton. I will not suffer in silence. I will be heard.      

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My head is still spinning. I was playing in the yard with Stevie, the coolest little seven-year-old I’ve ever known (maybe not saying so much as he’s the only kid I’ve ever known), running, chasing, kickin’ back under the warmth of the sun. Then a nice meal, and the icing on the cake- lying on my back in Stevie’s arms while he rubbed my tummy. Livin’ the life of Riley at the tender age of nine weeks. It doesn’t get any better than that. But then it all came crashing down faster than a New York minute.

I need to back up a smidge. I had a big meal that morning, and… well, I don’t want to be indelicate, but I had to poop. Now, I had never been advised of any sort of law, rule, or regulation about not pooping in the house, but apparently it’s a big deal. The whole unfortunate incident was exacerbated by the deposit being discovered by the one they call “Dad” (I call him the “Screw”.) when he stepped in it… barefoot. Injustice #1: the finger was immediately pointed at me without even a fleeting consideration of other possible suspects. That’s profiling in my book.

Injustice #2: No formal charges, no hearing, no opportunity to present a defense or explanation. The Screw grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, dragged me over to the unsightly pile of doo-doo, stuck my nose in it (Let me tell you… that’s pretty disgusting even if it’s your own poop.), and swatted my butt with a rolled up newspaper. It didn’t hurt, but it sure scared the bejeesus out of me. That’s cruel and unusual punishment.

Injustice #3: Solitary confinement in a place they call the kitchen; I call it the “Hole”. I was so excited when I heard Stevie say he wanted me to sleep in bed with him that first night, but then the Screw stepped in. “No, Stevie, Scooter has to stay in the kitchen until he’s housebroken. It’s easier to clean poop or pee off the tile floor in case he has an accident.” (Accident, hell. When I have to poop or pee, it ain’t no accident.) Stevie gave me a big hug- it felt like a final goodbye- the Screw put me in the kitchen and put a gate in front of the entrance, and left me there, unjustly locked up and alone. The cannons of justice provide for incarceration or corporal punishment. I got both. I call that double… jeopardy… or double punishment… well, double something.

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Prison, jail, the Big House, the Hoosegow, the pen, the pokey… the kitchen. A cold, sterile environment. Steel, glass, plastic, Formica, hard ceramic tile floor, bright unfiltered lighting. No carpeting, no cushioned furniture, no family pictures or decorative curios, no soft lighting. The Screw told Stevie I’d feel safer with the lights on. I know he did it as a punishment enhancer- did you ever try to sleep with the lights on? Added insult to injury, the Screw put a ticking clock in my bed. I can’t even tell time so I know he did it to drive me woo-woo. 

Did I say “bed”? How about a little folded-up towel? I’d like to see the Screw sleep on that. The other amenities? A double dog dish, one side for food and the other for water. The food dish was empty. I fear the Screw won’t feed me anymore as a preventative measure to avoid a reoccurrence of the earlier mishap. The water was ok… at first. I don’t know about you, but I like my water cool and fresh. After a couple of hours, it naturally assumes room temperature… barely drinkable. And, of course, there’s always a concern a bug will eventually get in there.

Oh, and a toy, a little rubbery thing that looks like a bone and squeaks if I bite it. That was pretty cool, but a guy can only do that for so long. That high-pitched sound was a little like fingernails on a blackboard and my young jaws tired pretty easily. So I gave up on it after just an hour or so. Now what do I do?

Pacing. I heard a new fish does a lot of pointless pacing in his cell. It’s a small kitchen, but I could still work off a little nervous energy walking in circles…well, not quite a circle as I’m able to take a few steps into the adjoining pantry. But here’s the problem. My little toenails kept clickity-clacking as I walked on the tile floor. That’s damn near as annoying as the freaking clock. I tried running but I wiped out on the slick tiles. Incarceration is not intended for a high-energy guy like me.

I can’t escape the ticking of the clock. It’s the acoustical version of the Chinese water torture. Tick-tick-tick, drip-drip-drip. It’s there all the time. It never goes away. I tried muffling the sound by wrapping the towel around my head, but then I couldn’t breathe. Tick-tick-tick, drip-drip-drip.

I know. I’ll explore. There must be something to see in this place. Cabinets. I bet there are some really cool things in there, but I can’t open the doors… no thumbs. Huh, there’s a little towel hanging off a drawer handle. I bet I could pull that thing off and chew it up or something. Or maybe I could use it to make a set of small earmuffs that would stop the ticking without sucking the life out of me. It might be a bit out of my reach, but with a running start, I think I could jump high enough to get it.

One, two, three.. go! Run, plant my feet, jum…oh no, slip and slide on the damn tile floor. Crash! Oh my God. Am I ok? My nose is a little sore, but the old legs are good. I remember what my Uncle always said, “If you fall off your horse, get right back on.” Or was that Grandpa? Whatever. Now it needs to be the standing jump. Give it my all. Put it all out there. Make or break. Win one for the Gipper. Airborne! I got it. Pull. Pull some more. It’s not coming off. It must be tied to something. Pull harder. Crash!

Oh my God! The damn drawer came out and smashed to the floor. Knives, spoons, and forks clinking and clanging everywhere.

“What the hell was that?!”

Oh-oh. The Screw is coming! I’m guessing he’ll be about as happy as he was when he stepped in the dog poop. Quick, lie down on your towel. Pretend you're sleeping. Cover yourself a little. Close your eyes. That’s the secret. Keep those eyes closed.

“What happened here?! What a mess.”

Keep your eyes closed. Don’t move. He’ll think it was an earthquake or something.

“How did you manage to do this?”

Who, me? I was asleep the whole time. Try not to smile. He, he, he.

The old playing possum ploy worked to perfection. I heard the Screw cleaning up the mess and putting the drawer back. When I heard his footsteps on the stairs, I took my first peek. All clear, but the towel was gone. I need a new adventure.

Mmm… what’s this big plastic thing? I can move it around and it feels like it’s got stuff inside. Push, push, push…clunk. It hit something. It’s teetering. Push some more. Timber! The big thing fell over… and look at all the goodies spilled out all over the floor! I know what this is. It’s garbage! Every dog’s favorite pile of mischief. I dug right in.

Let’s see… coffee grounds. Can’t eat that, but I can sure spread it around. Maybe I’ll try to write my name on the floor in coffee grounds. Oh, that’s right, I can’t spell. Banana peel… nothing. A Pepsi can, a pickle jar, and two Nerf darts. Mmm… maybe I could chew the foam darts up later. Look at this! A Domino's pizza box! With lots of good stuff still stuck to the cardboard! And Pepperoni! My favorite. Just when I was losing hope, a pizza box shows up. Like my cousin Missy always said, “When God closes a door, sometimes He opens a window.” Or was that my Uncle Rambo?

I spent an hour on that box, licking and chewing until all evidence that it had once held a pepperoni pizza had been removed. Then I laid back…no, wait, it’s lay back… yeah, lay back… this lay/lie stuff is confusing… and covered myself with the box and breathed in the sweet pepperoni aroma. For the moment, the harsh reality of the cruel confines of my kitchen prison drifted away, and I was at peace.

But not for long. Tck-tick-tick, drip-drip-drip. With the absolute quiet in the kitchen, the freaking ticking of the watch sounded like a bass drum. Bam-bam-bam! I covered the clock with the towel. It helped a little, but I knew it was there. I was almost listening for it now. Tick-tick-tick, drip-drip-drip.

I paced the kitchen for a while. I counted my steps, from the stove to the fridge, from the dishwasher to the gate, and then the entire course. I walked the route backward. I thought of singing to myself, but I didn’t know any songs. I thought of how I should have been nuzzled up to Stevie in his bed right now if it weren’t for the Screw. I wish I had bitten him when he stepped over the gate to leave.

The gate… leave. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Maybe I could escape this kitchen dungeon. I’ve heard about things like that- The Great Escape, Escape from Alcatraz, Papillon, and the Shawshank Redemption. I had limited assets- no boat, no motorcycle, and I certainly wasn’t going to crawl through a freaking sewer, but I’m pretty clever for a nine-week-old.

I surveyed the kitchen. In the midst of the debris field all over the kitchen floor, the flipped-over garbage can stood out like a beacon in the night. I pushed, pulled, and tugged it over to the gate. Repeated efforts to get up on the side of the garbage can failed. My little paws could reach the top, but I needed a boost. This is where the clever part comes in. I gathered up anything that seemed useful from the garbage strewn all over the floor (I had long ago learned the value of recycling.), piled it all up, and then covered it with the folded-up towel. Once on top of the garbage heap, I was able to put my little paws on the top of the gate. I stared down at the floor below. It was probably a distance of about three feet, but at the moment it seemed like I was standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon. Unfortunately, what I scored in the cleverness category, I lacked in courage. 

I stood there motionless for a good ten minutes, paralyzed with fear. I looked back at that hellhole I had been living in, and heard that dreaded sound, tick-tick-tick. I couldn’t go back. I closed my eyes tight, uttered “Geronimo” in a whisper so as not to wake up the Screw, and went over the top. My entire life flashed before my eyes as I was in free fall. I was thinking I should have made a little parachute out of the towel, but it was too late. It was what they call in the military a hard, but survivable, landing. I hit the floor with all four legs in spread eagle position with the rug cushioning the landing and softening the sound of touchdown.

I did it! I broke out of the joint! This has smash hit summer release written all over it. I surveyed the surroundings, table and six chairs. Must be the dining room. I quickly scanned the area for dropped pieces of food, but no such luck. The living room- a sofa, a couple of accent chairs, a fireplace, and a piano. Huh, a piano. I’ll have to try that someday. The TV room, surrounded by windows with a sofa and a loveseat. I’ll bet it’s a nice place to catch a football game in the fall. What’s this room? A desk with a laptop, a chair, and family pictures on the walls. There’s Stevie in his soccer uniform. He sure is a cute kid. I got it. This must be the Screw’s office. Maybe I’ll poop in it.

I walked the whole downstairs over and over. It was everything I dreamed of when I was locked up in the slammer, but for some reason, in the immortal words of my second cousin Snoopy, “The anticipation far exceeded the actual event.” Freedom cured all ails… except one. I was still alone. 

I lay down on the comfy living room sofa, but I was still alone. I sat under the dining room table dreaming of all the yummy stuff that might fall my way someday, but I was still alone. I found a nice soft spot in the TV room. It was frustrating because I couldn’t work the stupid remote, and I was still alone. 

It took a while for me to understand. Then it hit me. The only thing on my mind was the image of Stevie sleeping in his bed. I knew I belonged in that picture. 

I walked to the bottom of the stairs and looked up. Every step was bigger than I was, and there were so many. This was my Mount Everest challenge, and there wasn’t a Sherpa in sight. That was of no consequence as I was on a mission. I would not fail.

 I reached my front paws onto the step above and dug the nails on my hind legs into the face of the step before me. This innovative push-pull technique provided the maximum leverage required for every step. (I told you I was clever.) It was exhausting. I tried to pace myself, but I was too excited to get to Stevie’s room. I could feel myself tiring. With five steps to go, I hit the wall. I lay down thinking I had failed in my quest. Worse than that, I felt like I had failed Stevie.

I was slipping in and out of consciousness. I couldn’t go on. Then strange things started floating around in my head. I saw the Little Engine That Could chugging onward and upward, Inigo Montoya’s takedown of the six-fingered man, and Rudy taking the field for Notre Dame. Then I heard it, clear as a bell- the college fight song from a 1940’s Broadway musical: “You can win Winsocki if you buckle down.” And buckle down I did.

I dug down deep and covered those last five steps like freaking Spiderman. At the top of the stairs I turned and surveyed the vanquished obstacle beneath me, and I raised my little front paws high in the air in the image of Rocky celebrating in front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

I caught a break. All the bedroom doors were open. In a minute I was standing outside Stevie’s room. In the glow of a little night light, I could see him in his bed, covered with a light blue blanket. He was facing the doorway just as though he were expecting me. He looked like an angel. I wiped away a tear and slowly walked to the side of his bed.

I caught another break. There was a small toy chest next to his bed, small enough for me to easily double-jump up onto his bed. I looked at Stevie for a moment, cherishing all those wonderful times that I knew Stevie and I would have together. I snuggled up next to him, and if a dog could smile, I would have had a big one as I drifted off to sleep.

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Ok, maybe this doesn’t quite measure up to the thrill of Steve McQueen hurtling through the air on his motorcycle as he flees from the bad guys or the drama of Edmond’s splashdown in a body bag into the ocean waves below the cliffs of Château d’lf, but I think all the elements of a good movie are there, even if it’s just one of those made-for-TV jobs. And I’d be willing to sacrifice a little artistic integrity to spruce up the events a little bit, you know, to make my true-to-life kitchen escape even more exciting. I could have a ferocious fight with a large cat for a spot on Stevie’s bed, or a pipe could burst in the kitchen and I survive a terrible flood, or I rescue the family from a raging fire, or I capture a band of crazed killers who seek refuge in the home. Hell, I’d even completely sell out and go the route of a “Home Alone” style comedy. I could make a big mess in the kitchen when I try to bake a cake, or I could fill the kitchen sink with water and perform a series of funny dives, or I could set poop traps all over the house, or I could have a bunch of friends over for a crazy party. It’s hard to decide- action movie, drama, or comedy. Maybe a TV series. I’ll have to give it some thought.

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