The Puppy Files: Rigby v. Rug

Welcome to yet another edition of The Puppy Files, a series in which I travel down memory lane to when I was an itty bitty little puppy with large gnashing teeth and a bad attitude.

Today's tale is entitled:  Rigby v. Rug

It was a typical weekday afternoon.  Sister had just left for work after having spent her lunch hour entertaining me and I was planning on hunkering down for a well deserved nap.  But I was never going to get that nap; fate had other plans for me.

You see, rather than be visited by happy dreams and content yawns, I was suddenly overcome with the overwhelmingly urge to dig.

Dirt Hole, 2012

Water Hole, 2012

Now, my loyal readers know that I have a soft spot for digging.  Over the last couple of years, I've not only shared stories about at least two marvelous holes I've dug in the backyard, but I have also wowed my fans with tales of digging in the doggy pool.  I haven't, however, before today, disclosed the fact that I have been known to sleep dig (it's like sleep walking, only with digging--I get up in the middle of the night, find a carpeted corner of the room, and start digging frantically, completely oblivious to my family's attempts to wake me).  So, I have a history, but, with the exception of a few choice words muttered by the person who shirked his/her responsibilities and did not keep a close eye on me when they should have, my digging has always been harmless.

Anyway, I found myself stuck inside the house and driven by an overwhelming urge to dig.  I wandered around the first floor in search of the perfect location, but ended up being unimpressed with my options (you can't just dig anywhere!).  Then, all of a sudden, the answer came to me:  upstairs.

[I should take a moment to mention that, at this point in time, the second floor of the house had only just become available to me.]

So up the stairs I climbed and came face to face with the perfect digging place:  the landing (a three by three foot carpeted platform between two sets of perpendicular stairs).  As soon as I dug my claws into the carpet pile, I knew I had chosen the right spot.  Like a dog possessed, I hunkered down and started digging with abandon, completely oblivious to the world around me.

Minutes later, I came to my senses and looked down at the mess I had made.  The carpet was pulled back on itself, the backing was torn, and the carpet pad was shredded and deposited all over the stairs.  Only the tack strips-each of which harbored dozens of sharp upward pointing nails-remained on the newly exposed floor.

Panicked was an understatement of how I felt.  I had managed to do all this damage without cutting myself or tumbling down the stairs which was good (I was a bit clumsy as a pup), but I knew none of that really mattered if my family returned home and saw what I had done.  I needed to hide the damage.  But how?  Then, an idea came to me.

I ran down the stairs, skidded through the kitchen, and screeched to a halt at the dining room table.  Rearing up on my hind legs, I put my front paws on the table and grabbed an unopened envelope, a piece of scrap paper, and a magazine.  I then jumped back down onto the floor and hot-footed it back up the stairs to the scene of the crime.  I then proceeded to shred the unopened mail, scrap paper, and magazine into tiny pieces and deposited them neatly over the destroyed carpet.

Let's just say, my family was not fooled.