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Pravin Kumar
Age: 63 Zodiac: 
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 Posted: Fri Sep 25, 2009 7:05 am |
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Dogs are miracles with paws.
~Attributed to Susan Ariel Rainbow Kennedy
We found him at the Animal Shelter in Paradise, California. Of uncertain heritage, the three-month-old puppy had silky, white fur and six large spots on his body and rump. Adorable black patches encircling his eyes made him look like a masked bandit.
"Oh, Mom," my eight-year-old daughter, Kari, exclaimed, hopping up and down as she tugged on my arm. "He's just beautiful. Can't we take him home?"
"Hmm," I said through pursed lips as I observed the puppy's friendly but calm behavior. The shelter worker had said that the animal's small paws indicated that he'd probably be no more than twenty-five pounds when fully grown.
Friendly, calm, and not too big, I thought. "Okay, Kari, it looks like he's just the right puppy for you."
Kari picked up the little dog and held him tight. "We'll call him Dudley."
That evening I made a comfortable bed in the kitchen for our new puppy. My heart warmed at the sight of my little girl and Dudley cuddling on the floor. I could already picture Kari teaching Dudley cute tricks, romping together around our large, fenced backyard, taking walks in the neighborhood.
The first indication that Dudley was going to be trouble happened that very first night. We'd put up a baby gate to prevent the puppy from leaving the kitchen. There was another entry, into the living room, but that was blocked by a louvered door. And no dog could open that. Right? But it appeared that's how he was escaping. We spent a sleepless night, hiding around the dining room corner, trying to discover Dudley's exact method of escape. Finally we saw it. The little imp simply hooked one front claw into the space between two wooden slats in the louvered door and pulled. Click. The door popped open. Dudley ran out, joyfully wiggling his little black rump and, when he spied us, left a big, yellow stain on the carpet.
Months passed and Dudley grew into an affectionate and sweet-tempered pet. Neighbors admired his silky white coat and long, flowing tail. But his size was a surprise to everyone. Within a year's time, he'd grown into a powerful sixty-pound adult, making a mockery of the adoption papers claiming Jack Russell parentage.
Dudley continued to confound us with his escape maneuvers. Now he wasn't just getting out of the kitchen. Once he learned that he could climb our six-foot backyard fence, there was no stopping him. Freedom apparently just felt too good to our roving Rover. We nailed boards vertically to the top of the fence, but the dog just found ways to get under the fence. We installed chicken wire along the fence, burying it at least a foot underground. Then Dudley started demolishing the fence itself. I inspected the backyard each day, feeling like a rancher, riding fence, making sure my "cattle" didn't cross into our neighbor's property.
"That dog is just too smart for his own good," the man across the street complained, as I retrieved Dudley from his garden for the umpteenth time. "You'd better think about chaining him in your backyard."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Bolger. We're going to put in one of those invisible fences. That should keep him in his own backyard."
But it didn't.
"Take him for a long walk every day," Kari's young friend, Emily, instructed. "Then he'll be too tired to get away."
We were already doing that.
The funny thing was, none of us could figure out how Dudley was getting out. Not my husband, our two teenage sons, or Kari or me. The dog was a regular Houdini. I can't be sure -- and my friends laughed when I expressed my suspicions -- but I could have sworn that Dudley checked the windows to make sure no one was watching before he sidled over to his mysterious escape spot.
I felt downright mortification when one of our neighbors called Animal Control. "That's the last straw," I announced to the whole family one evening over dinner. "Dudley is going to be a house dog. He can still go for walks every day and we'll take him to the dog park. But that's the extent of his outside activities!"
And that was that. Kari played with Dudley inside the house, and when her friends came over, cavorted with them in the backyard. Dudley watched from the family room sliding glass door, his big brown eyes unbearably mournful. It broke my heart to see him like that. But I was not going to risk destroying good relationships with our neighbors.
One windy, summer evening, Kari played by herself in the backyard. I was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. The temperature had been in the triple digits for several days and I'd opened all the screened windows and doors for ventilation. Dudley, who was watching his girl from the family room, began to bark and whine. I yelled at him to stop making such a racket -- that is, until I heard him growl. Paradise does have its occasional bear or cougar sighting. I hurried to the family room door to call Kari to come inside. That's when I noticed the long, vertical rip in the screen door, large enough for a sixty-pound dog to pass through.
My heart pounding, I shoved the screen door open and rushed out onto the back patio. I could just make out the reflective tape on Kari's sneakers, bobbing up and down in the darkness as she sprinted toward the house. Dudley was right behind her.
"Mom!" Kari exclaimed, her big, blue eyes dark with annoyance. "Dudley won't let me play."
Seconds later, I heard a loud, ominous crack, followed by several, sharp snaps. The ground rumbled and I thought it was the beginning of an earthquake. I flipped on the outside light just in time to see part of the large oak tree in the backyard suddenly crash to earth. There it lay, its huge branches spread out on the lawn, taking up half of our yard.
Kari and I stood there, in awe. Neither of us could speak as we both realized what had just taken place. Our Houdini dog had escaped the house and snatched my little girl from death under the crushing weight of a giant oak in the nick of time.
We hugged each other tight. Through tears, we praised Dudley, who simply wagged his fluffy tail and gazed up at us with adoring eyes. Then I wondered. "What if all of Dudley's exasperating escapes had been a glorious preparation for this single, critical event?" Could be. Atta boy, Houdini -- er -- Dudley.
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