Welp, I have to admit it: I seriously did not think a corgi could rise to the level of a German shepherd, the dogs of my dreams (okay, okay: and nightmares). But by golly: Cassie the Corgi just did it.
After the Adventures in Medical Science (that would be 6 surgeries in 12 months), I fell into a kind of lassitude in which I let everything, business and personal, go to pot. But lately a small recovery has occurred.
Yesterday I happened to notice that I haven't cleaned and oiled the kitchen cabinetry since long before the Adventures began, and the place was looking pretty seedy. So I broke out a load of chemicals (Murphy's Oil Soap, orange oil, and stuff, and stuff, and stuff) and started scrubbing. Got about halfway through yesterday.
This morning resumed said project.
The Project requires a lot of traipsing back and forth between the garage and the kitchen, hauling stepladders, rags, shop towels, squirt bottles, regular bottles, chemicals, and more chemicals.
Hours passed. Along about noon (having started around 6 this morning), I finally finished the job. Starved, I fixed a pot of spaghetti and sat down to revive my delicate little self.
Understand: we live in Arizona.
To say this place is hotter than the hubs of Hades is to understate. A dog cannot be left outside here -- if you do that, you can be arrested for felony animal abuse and thrown in Sheriff Joe's slam.
So I'm chowing down on my lunch. Phone rings: it's the accountant. She wants to know about DropBox: is this worth her paying for? A conversation ensues.
Finally I get off the phone and sit back down to resume the chow-down project.
At this point, from the back of the house, Cassie starts to bark.
I tell her to shut up. (The sound of a moth flying past a nightlight will cause this dog to bark.)
She does not shut up. In fact, she gets more and more insistent.
She runs up the hall out of the back of the house, barking, then turns around and runs back, barking. Back and forth, barking.
Finally, the human, a creature often slow on the uptake, dimly thinks "WTF?"
Realizing she's finally getting the message across, Cassie becomes even louder and even more insistent.
Now, finally, alerted, I run to the back of the house. Ruby is not in her nest.
She's not anywhere back there.
She's not anywhere in the house.
I call her. She does not materialize.
Must be in the backyard, I think. I check the pool: no, the gate is not open. Nope, no dog corpse is floating around in the drink.
But no. Ruby is not in the backyard.
I promise dog treats.
Cassie continues, urgent. She barks. She dances. She barks.
Finally, I get the message: Holy sh!t!! Garage.
I run to the garage door.
And yea, verily: there's Ruby, trapped inside the garage.
She has not barked. She has not scratched at the door. She hasn't made a sound. She's just waited inside the garage, in suicidal silence.
In our balmy climate, the inside of a house's garage is just a few degrees short of the inside of a car. Lacking insulation or ventilation, my garage gets very, very hot in the summertime.
I let Ruby in. She, not being the brightest rhinestone on the cowboy vest, seems unperturbed.
Cassie, however, appears gratified.
I reward Cassie with fistful after fistful of dog treats.
And I am impressed.
Not to say exceptionally grateful.