We’ve been leaving the dogs free while we’re at work because I feel bad that they are locked up in their crates for 10+ hours each day.
|Their dog crates, which we lovingly refer to as “boxes.”|
Every night when we arrive back home, Zubie and Crash are in their crates anyway. We figure that they do this because they don’t know how to interpret their freedom, and their boxes are considered a safe haven. They do, however, come tearing around the corner once we open the kitchen door and call their names.
The other night, Crash doesn’t respond to our calls. I find him curled up in the corner of his box with guilt smeared across his face. I figure that it was because he has to go to the bathroom and doesn’t want to get excited. He does this every time my brother visits.
Later that night, Evan and I are upstairs watching a movie. I spot Crash sniffing something next to the wall. It’s a little turd. Just one nugget. How does that even happen? So I clean it up; it’s no big deal.
I return to the couch, and Crash is gone. Meanwhile, Zubie happily gnaws on a Nylabone.
Evan suggests that Crash went downstairs for a drink of water. The two Corgis had been chasing each other around the bonus room throughout the first half of our movie, so I agree.
An hour later, our movie ends. There is still no sign of Crash.
A search ensues. Zubie prances behind us as we go from room to room. We check each bathroom, under all of the beds, in closets, and ultimately… find Crash hiding in his box with a look of utter horror on his pitiful face.
|Kind of like this.|
I try calling his name, bribing him with treats, tossing him a tennis ball. Absolutely nothing I can do will lure him out of his box. His expression remains the same. He knows that he’s done for. He thinks that he has committed the worst crime in all of dog history.
Frustrated, I close the crate’s door briefly, and it swings back open.
Crash leaps into my arms, smothering me with kisses, and wiggles his tail in pure joy.
I love that little guy.