Sasee Magazine

Our headlights bore straight through the window to the back of our house as Craig and I pulled in our driveway. “Did you leave the blinds open in the living room?” he asked. “And the bedroom?”

“No,” I answered. “You know I wouldn’t leave the house open for strangers to peek in.”

“Well one of us must have, and I know it wasn’t me,” Craig continued.

And one of us did. It was the one of us with four legs, a nubby tail and a brown fur coat. And he was lying on the couch, worn out from his rampage and surrounded by the evidence.

“What have you done?” I screamed at Tyson, our two-year-old adopted Boxer. I had always heard that if you don’t catch a dog in the act, there is no use yelling at them; they won’t know what they did wrong. But I really wasn’t worried about previous advice at the moment. I wanted to scream. I needed to scream.

Our blinds were new. In fact, our entire house was brand new. It had been built six months before we brought Tyson home. And now, every single vertical blind, (installed just one week earlier) from every single room in the house, was on the floor. Some were in halves, some in quarters, others completely unrecognizable.

Tyson lifted his head off the pillow, glanced in my direction and let loose a jowl jiggling sigh. Then, he put his head back down and continued snoozing. How dare I disturb his sweet slumber.

“It was fun having a dog,” Craig said.

“Yep. He’s outa here,” I agreed. And we went to bed.

The next morning, we called Lowe’s to get a quote for replacing the blinds. My husband and I had a long conversation and considered replacing the dog. We even went through the house and started collecting some of his belongings. We grabbed his sweater, his tennis ball and his rawhide bone. But we couldn’t do it. We couldn’t give up that easily, not on him and not on ourselves.

Craig and I took Tyson to the vet the following week. He was due for a check up, and we were desperate for some advice. We told the vet about the blind incident. We also mentioned the six chocolate muffins and four golf pencils he devoured, resulting in a late night, costly, emergency vet visit.

“He seems to be suffering from separation anxiety,” Dr. Jessica told us. “His destructive behavior is a result of sadness from being left alone.” We asked about prescriptions for doggie Xanax and Valium. The doctor laughed.

“Have you thought about a crate?” Dr. Jessica asked. “They take some adjusting, but eventually dogs tend to prefer them. They will go in their crates on their own. It’s a comfortable spot for them.”

I told her that I didn’t want to lock him away all day. I thought it would be sad to put him in “doggie prison.” But I also thought it would be sad to continue to redecorate our house.

“It’s not cruel,” the doctor continued. “As long as it is large enough for him to stand up and turn around, it will be fine. It’s for his own safety too.”

We left the vet’s office and drove to Wal-Mart. In the pet section, we found metal crates in various sizes. We bought one large enough for a Saint Bernard. It barely fit in our car.

Once it was assembled at home, Tyson circled his crate like wolves around a wagon. He curiously sniffed its exterior but would not walk inside. We covered the bottom of the crate with a queen-sized comforter and put his favorite toys and treats inside. He went in long enough to eat his snacks; then he came back out.

Over the next several weeks, we put Tyson in the crate when we left to go to work, to the store and out to dinner. He howled, barked, yelped and whined as we walked to our car and backed out the driveway.

When we were at home, we left the crate door open so he could walk in and out as he pleased. We talked about the crate using a pleasant tone, and we never used it as punishment. Eventually, we began to refer to it as his “house.” And eventually, he went in on his own and remained quiet.

Six years and three moves later, Tyson knows that his crate is a good place. He goes in automatically in the mornings when we have to leave. He also goes in when it thunders or when we fuss at him for playing in the garbage. His crate is his refuge.

We all need a quiet place of our own. Dogs are no exception. We all need a spot for sleep and solitude. I am glad that Tyson has his place. And I am glad that we did not give up on him. He is one of us.