Smart

Because of the pandemic, my family has severely cut down on their in-person shopping and has taken to relying heavily on online purchasing and mail delivery.  In fact, every couple of days, another package arrives in the mail and is left in the hallway for sanitizing and/or quarantining. 

For the most part, I ignore these packages.  Sure, I might sniff them as I walk by and bark at them if they block my way, but I know that they’re probably boxes full of boring stuff like stamps or people shampoo or grass seed.  But every once in a while, a package arrives that immediately piques my interest and holds my full and undivided attention.  But how do I know that one nondescript box is different from another nondescript box?  How do I know which will be of interest to me?  Here’s what Pa has to say on the matter:  

“You tell him [me] to ‘sit,’ something he was taught 11 years ago and is asked to do every single day, and he looks at you like you’re speaking another language.  But packages?  He can read the writing on the box and know it’s his.”

That’s right, my secret is no more.  I can read.  I can look at two boxes and realize that the one clearly marked “Chewy” is mine.

And boy-oh-boy do I get excited when the package is mine.  Until its opened, I spend all my waking hours barking at it excitedly and following it as my family moves the box from room to room.  When the package is finally opened, I anxiously pace nearby, waiting to be given whatever fun or tasty treat is surely inside.  I’ve even been known to rear up on my hind legs to get a better look at what’s going on inside the box.

Sometimes, however, my family does something really mean.  Despite the fact that the box is clearly marked “Chewy” and most definitely mine, they keep the contents away from me.  Of course, when this happens, I make sure to show my displeasure.  I become even more hysterical in my barking, pacing, and carrying on (incorrigible one might say)—insistent that I should be allowed access to what is rightfully mine.  Recently, my antics became so extreme with the arrival of a withheld “Chewy” box, that Ma actually had to take my package and put it outside—away from my persistent focus.  Hours later, when I was seemingly preoccupied with eating my dinner, Sister snuck outside, grabbed the box, and stashed it down the basement without me know (or so she thought).

Now, I won’t go down to the basement to retrieve what is rightfully mine (Santa’s watching, after all, not to mention the scary oil burner lives down there), but I haven’t forgotten.  No sir.  Eventually, I’ll get what’s rightfully mine.  I always do.

The Scary Oil Burner