A Compromised Hidey-Hole
Our black lab Lady didn’t like flies in the house. She was nearly seventy pounds, had lost the tip of an ear in a scrap with my sister’s guard dog and she’d snap at bees in the backyard garden. But even if my mom teasingly mentioned a buzzy-bug or zzzz-ed with pinched fingers wiggling through the air, Lady took cover.
If we spotted the fly before her, we’d groan and chase it about with rolled up newspapers (or during my pacifist years, a cup to trap it). When she didn’t know about the fly she’d be fine and grab a rope toy and when I reached for it she’d run into the next room. If I didn’t chase, she’d peek in and drop it until I walked towards it then she’d grab it again and trot away. And if I ever caught her by her rope, collar or tail, she’d drop it and wait for it to be thrown.
Usually when she fetched it is when she heard the dreaded buzz.
First she’d look around, real slow, hoping it was her imagination. But when it dove into her ear or landed on her rump, she’d hop and turn in midair then jerk her head around. And when she finally spotted it she’d dart into the nearest bedroom and under the bed. If there were clothes or boxes or garbage beneath, she’d plow through. Or she’d head for the couch she didn’t fit under. She’d scrape the carpet, compress her body, try to drag herself underneath. Whoever was on the couch could feel her moving. In those days I could crawl under there with her and try to pull her out or scare her out. Usually I’d just comfort her, remind her of the size difference.
Once the cabinet under our stove was open and most of the pots and sheet pans were in the sink or the dishwasher. So she wriggled inside and knocked over pots and their lids. The whole family ran in to see the racket.
My mom closed the door on her and we all laughed as her tail thumped a frying pan. Lady pushed open the cabinet door with her snout to see if it was all clear. But the buzzy-bug flew by and she jerked back so fast the door slammed.
She stayed in there all night. While my mom prepared dinner, she slid scraps through the door. While we ate, we’d hear the hinges creak as she stuck her nose out or a pan rattle. After dishes were cleaned and the carrots that I usually slipped to her were tossed into the garbage disposal, my dad reached in to yank her by the collar but she growled and kicked. We think that’s how the soup pot got a dent.
So we left the door open and waited in the other room. Whenever someone went in for a soda or a cookie, we’d coax and coo and her tail would thump that frying pan but she stayed there until bed time. I called for her to come night-night with me, but she was comfortable sleeping among the cooking ware.
It was about midnight, my dad says, but I had been asleep for hours so it seemed later. Lady kicked and clamored and knocked out pots that rolled over their handles and stopped at the fridge. Lids spun on their rims until they rested on the linoleum. Lady whimpered, cried and rushed through the dark rooms hitting table legs, a yoga ball, the ottoman, and a decorative goose pot with a dead plant. She stumbled over shoes and the vacuum. She made turns by slamming into the walls then turning and hitting the next wall and turning again until she found a clear path.
I woke up to see my dad open the backdoor for her to sprint through. My mom ran out in her robe to see what was the matter with Little Lady Lou.
The fly bounced from the wooden walls to the pots inside the cabinet under the stove.
