This One Is About Barney

The only people who take transitions worse than women who are seven and a half months pregnant and filled with impossible nesting hormones, are dogs.

Every day B and I put on our shopping shoes and trod off to the next furniture store to see if they sell chairs that are small enough, or dressers that are small enough, or shelves that are small enough, so that maybe they can come and live in our Green Bathroom Central Park Palace of Tiny Wonders.  It is quite the effort, involving multiple bottles of water, miniature measuring tapes, in-depth subway route strategy meetings, and lots snacks for the suddenly ravenous pregnant girl.

Some days I have three lunches. I am so tired of eating!

And then at the end of all this we run home to walk the dogs.

My favorite part of this is when we come home, and we click the lock open, and then there are our two furball butt heads greeting us at the door wearing their best WUH-OH! faces.

And then, the carnage.

Mostly it is not terrible. Mostly it is just Message Destruction, which, as opposed to Boredom Destruction, is not so very awful.

Message Destruction is when you pull it all out of the garbage can and strew it about just-so, in order to convey to the humans the power for evil you could possess should things continue on in such an undesirable canine manner.

Boredom Destruction on the other hand . . . total annihilation.

And it is never terribly clear-cut who did what in these escapades. Sometimes the garbage has been procured from tall structures (only Barney would dare to leap to), and sometimes the garbage has been recovered from deep caverns (only a Peter-length face could reach). The nature of the artistry usually leans toward The Pan, who never commits to anything less than the ultimate of high expression, but then the guilt in the room upon our return is heavily Scottie in nature, and so I am never sure who to blame.

Except, as the higher-intelligent being, it really does fall to Peter Pan to be a better example. That sounds stupid even as I type it.

But today was the best. Today, after a marathon day in Brooklyn, we returned home to a pristine apartment, with our two butt head dogs wearing their best angel faces. We thought, Hallelujah! Praise Mayor Bloomberg! The dogs are all right!

But actually there were nefarious plots afoot, and not ten minutes after I arrived home, the king of our apartment, Sir Barnabus MacDuff, waltzed into the bedroom where I was napping, planted a fragrant load right in the corner, and then casually strutted out.

The minute his furry behind had crossed the threshold to the living room his guilt set in, and I could hear him scurrying about in a delighted panic.

As I lay there overcome with the aroma of death, I imagined I could hear his thoughts translated through the tapping of his toenails on the hardwoods, like morse code.

"I poo-ed! I poo-ed! She's going to catch me! Weeeee!"

I got up and made all my angry noises and shook all my fingers at Barney, while he wiggled in half-brained guilty excitement and launched himself into the green bathtub for cover, his ears tucked back against his head and his eyes darting about nervously. I was headed to the bathroom myself for supplies, and when Barney realized I was coming he shot out of the tub with glee and barreled directly toward his crate, his back half twisting so forcefully he looked like a rocketing corkscrew.

All of our Target purchases were piled in the doorway to his crate and when he realized he couldn't get in he started scrambling in the opposite direction. Redirect! Redirect! He chose to make for higher ground and made a last-second crooked leap toward a tall cardboard box. One minute he was landing on top of the box in triumphant splendor, and the next minute the box was swallowing him whole. I watched his shocked little face disappear and heard a yelp of surprise, followed by a great scramble of dog against cardboard as he ran about in chaotic circles, not sure if he was safe inside or if he was stuck forever, and obviously loving every second of it.

Peter Pan, meanwhile, had this certain expression on his face, like possibly he had put Barney up to all of it and felt marginally guilty for how it had turned out, but still relieved that, for the moment, the dumb black one seemed to be gone for good.

I opened the flap to the cardboard box and took a good look at my little prisoner, who by now had gotten the pleasure of pooping indoors and going on a wild adventure, and then I looked at Peter Pan, who had by now composed himself and was now staring at the wall with a bored expression, and I said to myself,

"Shoot! We forgot to look at lamps while we were out!"