A tail of shame...

Good thing I'm cute!

One sure sign of the impending summer around here is that the wood doors on our house begin to shrink a bit. It’s great news for the front door, because now it opens fairly freely, rather than needing the extra yank to get it going in the morning, but the screen door in back is another story. Once that wee bit of shrinking takes place the latch that keeps it truly closed is just loose enough that the critters have at least a fifty-fifty shot of getting it open and dashing through it, which is exactly what Doodlebug did.

Since I’m deeply invested in my Bejeweled game (yes, I know, but at least it doesn’t end in the word “ville”) I assume he’s chasing a cat, or at least what he thinks is a cat before he realizes it isn’t anything cool after all, so I didn’t bother paying much attention to him. It’s not like he’s going anywhere, and once my game is over I can pretty easily round him up.

Only there was no need for that, as he is back at the door far sooner than I expected, with nary a bark crossing his lips during his excursion. When I open the door for him, he comes through it like the devil-cat is right on his tail, slinks to the computer room and promptly curls up in a ball on the floor, head down, tail tucked.

Great. Now I’m freaked, too, seeing as how this seems completely out of character for him. I hate being freaked out after 9 p.m. --- I’m tired and it’s dark, but it’s still early enough to make the 11 o’clock news if there’s really something scary out there, and I am not dressed for the 11 o’clock news.

Nothing.

I find nothing at all. And I really looked around, too. Put my shoes on and everything, because if I had stepped on a slug or an injured grasshopper or some other form of ick, there would be a new form of ick left behind by me for someone else to step in. Why risk it?

I come back in the house, more worried than anything else, because Doodle still has that look on his face like he’s about to be sold to the gypsies, which isn’t going to happen. Not this week, anyway, because he’s been good-dog-for-reals so far this week and we’re not about to trade out good-dog-for-reals after nearly six years of waiting for good-dog-for-reals to stop by.

My husband cracked the case, uttering the words that never cease to remind me that my next dog will be short-haired, if not hairless.

“I think you should check Darby’s butt.”

Sure enough, one peek under the tail explained it all. Never in my life have I met a dog more obsessed with having a spotless hiney than Darby. Should this dog have anything less than a perfect poop, he will see to it that anyone paying the smallest amount of attention knows about it. His head sinks low as he tucks his tail between his legs and engages in the skulk of shame, crawling back to us, whereupon he collapses on the patio looking for all the world like the saddest.dog.ever.

I’d find it far funnier if it didn’t mean I’d be spending the next several minutes, baby wipes in hand, muttering less than loving thoughts to him as I dig, clean or clip out the remnants of his toileting shame. Just like I did on this night.

Can’t believe I didn’t see it coming.