When I adopted my dog almost three years ago, she had been under foster care as a rescue dog. She had also been adopted the week before by a couple that quickly found out they were allergic and had to return her to her foster mother after a few days. Poor baby was definitely in a state of confusion. Her foster mother told me that she was crate trained and did very well under those circumstances. I had never had a crate trained dog before but since I do not have a fenced in back yard (thus she was to be an indoor only dog) I thought it would make sense to buy her a crate. The veterinarian that we visited for her “new pet” checkup confirmed that she would adjust much more quickly by being in a familiar environment such as the crate. So I bit the bullet and bought her a crate. Let me tell you, these things are not cheap! She loved it though. Every morning while I was getting ready to go to work or wherever, she would get in her crate and wait for me to shut her in.
After a few years I stopped being quite so regular about it. If I were only going out for a few hours, I would tell her she was on “guard duty” and let her roam about the house. She has never had an accident, nor has she ever chewed on anything that did not belong to her. In fact, she is usually sitting on the window seat watching the outside world when I come home. Since there is a cushion there just for her to sit on, I’m pleased that she uses it as intended.
Well, my parents came to visit about a year and a half ago and my mother managed to break the crate. She turned funny, not expecting it, and fell into it. I’m lucky my mom didn’t hurt herself anymore than she did. And my dad was able to fix the crate so that it worked. It was no longer collapsible, but it was useable. I’ve moved it around since then but apparently something was working its way loose as when I went to move it yesterday while vacuuming, it fell apart. I looked at it and went, hmmm. I don’t think I care enough to fix it.
So this morning, I get up and get ready for work. I pack my lunch, give the dog her biscuit, tell her to be a good girl, and go out the front door. I didn’t get to leave straightaway, as I had to scrape ice off my windshield. Then, when I am ready to leave, I look up at the bedroom window while backing up out of my driveway. And there is the dog . . . wondering why she is not in her crate. I hope she has a good day and guards the house well.
