A dog tale

When I first got Gabe, he was eight weeks old.  He was difficult to house-break, he ate his food so fast he puked... he was a mess.  When he stopped having accidents, he was probably past six months old, and with that finally accomplished, I decided to try leaving him the run of the house when we went on short jaunts in the car, the way most people do.  He didn't like being left behind, but when we'd arrive home, there he'd be napping comfortably in my recliner.  However, one day I noticed something had been at the butter, which was sitting in the middle of the kitchen table.  I could even see little toothmarks in it.  I didn't have to be a genius to figure out Gabe had jumped onto a kitchen chair, gotten on the table, found the butter, and had quite a big taste of it.  I bought a large metal dog cage so he wouldn't be crowded if left in it for awhile, and from that time on, he has stayed locked in his big-dog crate when we leave him at home.  I also lock him in it at night; I was leaving the door open at night until one morning I got up and he led me to the couch, went behind it, and showed me the poop he'd placed there some time in the night.  He then watched me as I disposed of it and scrubbed at the place where it had been laying, as though he wanted me to do it right.  He has never had an accident as long as he's in his crate, once I began locking him in it.  I've always heard boy dogs are harder to house-break, and I wonder now if that's true.  

Anyhow, three days ago Gabe and I were hanging around in the house when I thought of something I needed to tell Cliff, who was down at the shop.  I told Gabe to stay, that I'd be right back.  It took a bit longer than I thought it would, but I wasn't gone over ten minutes, I'm sure.  My dog was waiting for me at the door, tickled to see me, as always.  When I walked into the kitchen I noticed the plastic butter dish laying on the floor, upside down and empty.  There had been over half a stick of butter in that dish, and I immediately knew who the culprit was:  Gabe.  He was trying to look innocent, but his beard looked very buttery and slick.  I picked up the plastic butter dish, whacked him on the head (with hardly any force at all... not to worry), and said Bad Dog.  Then I apologized to him and washed his beard.

This took place around 4 PM.  I watched my dog closely until bedtime, figuring an 18-pound dog who has consumed five tablespoons of butter would be sure to vomit at some point.  However, he was his usual cuddly self right up to bedtime.  I breathed a sigh of relief, shut him in his cage, and went to bed.  

Next morning I awoke to the strong sour-milk smell of vomit and knew what had happened without even looking.  Cliff was sound asleep, so I didn't even turn on the light for a good look to see what sort of cleanup task awaited me.  I just let my husband sleep.  However, when I woke him up, he informed me that when he came to bed at 10, the puke smell was already in the air; he even thought about sleeping on the couch, but while he was thinking about it, he fell asleep in bed (typical).  After breakfast I scrubbed the carpet on and around the big cage.  It was obvious the poor dog upchucked mostly near (and through) the barred door of his cage, as though he'd wanted out of the cage before he made this mess.  Yuck.  I laundered all the toys and bedding in the cage and scrubbed the bare surfaces.  I sprayed Fabreze on it all and considered it done until this morning, when I came to the realization I hadn't totally gotten rid of the smell.  It wasn't as strong, but it was still present.  More scrubbing, washing, and spraying.  

"You wanted a dog," Cliff said to me, smirking.  

That's the kind of sympathy I get around here.