Thursday Night Basset Blogging
I suppose I owe you all a story.
But first the pictures. The big one of Satchmo is from this evening where we sat on the lawn and watched people walk by. There was also peeing and pooping. By one of us at least.
Now about that story.
On Tuesday the housekeeper (Olympia) comes. Until recently we have kept Fenway crated while she is here because, although the other dogs find her mildly amusing for five minutes until they go back to sleep, Fenway thinks that Olympia brings the party and therefore there are are things to grab and run with, equipment to bark at, and legs to run under at every opportunity; bonus points for on the stairs.
This week, since the L&T Casey is still home, she stayed around the house and the plan was for her to keep the dogs downstairs in the bedrooms while Olympia was upstairs and then switch to the upstairs living room when Olympia worked her way down.
To set the stage; some house topography. Our house, which is built on a hill, is technically three stories with a garage on the first floor, bedrooms on the second, and the living ares ( I guess that’s what they call them) on the third. From the living room there is an additional staircase that takes you to a rooftop deck.
That is where our story takes place.
We keep a baby-gate across the upper staircase if for no better reason than there is no reason for the dogs to go up there. On this particular day the L&T Casey decided to put the baby-gate at the top of the stairs leading down to the bedrooms. Sometime after doing this Casey noticed that Fenway was… missing. Climbing to the top of the stairs she found him by the deck door where he had taken a poop. Since I wasn’t there (this whole story was related to me by phone later) I imagine she said "Goddamit Fenway! Stupid dog." because, you know, that’s how they teach you to talk in goddamn stupid Catholic schools. Down the stairs to get cleaning supplies, back up, pick up the poop, open the door to air the entryway out, down the stairs to get rid of the poop.
After which, Casey noticed that Fenway was missing again.
Back up the stairs, "Fenway…Fenway…Goddamit Fenway!"
Just before going back down the stairs she heard clicking and, turning ever so slightly, there was Fenway.
On the roof about fifty feet away, about four feet from the edge (we have a sloped Spanish tile roof), and about thirty-some feet above the ground, standing there wagging his tail and enjoying the view. First instinct, Casey raced inside and grabbed her cell (because all teenagers know that cell phones are the most important device on earth and have many magical properties) to call me, then she ran back up the stairs and (and I can just hear it now) used her sweetest voice to call, "C’mon Fenway. C’mon! Good boy…Gooooooood boy." At which point the little rooftop walker tilted his head, wagged his tail and trotted back up to the tile cap, and made his way back to her.
Whereupon she, as she explained to me, she clutched him to her chest and told him to "never do that again" under the mistaken notion that he would know what she was saying, much less care.
And that is my Fenway on the roof story.
Never a dull moment.