Snow poses doggone dilemma
“Let’s go outside!”
Fippy the elderly mini schnauzer runs to the door and wiggles a little while I put on my boots, my coat, gloves and hat, and wrap a scarf around my face. Then it’s time to help Fippy into his coat. I stuff a plastic baggie into my pocket and clip the leash to his collar.
And out we go, into a landscape of snow so blown about that a three-foot snowdrift blocks our way off the porch. Up here on Mt. Crumpit, the wind has built snow dunes.
And this dog isn’t going to walk himself.
I’ve shoveled a bit of a trench on the sidewalk, hoping the dog will find a spot on which to do his business. But he is not inspired.
I guess all dog owners are dealing with this. Pups that are used to finding just the right spot in the grass can’t find the grass at all. At one point, Fippy decided to look for some green; he leapt across the cleared sidewalk and into the snowbank, broke through the crust and disappeared. I ran out there to rescue him, poking my legs far enough in his direction to reach down and pull him out. He was not happy, and still hadn’t done his business.
“Puppy pads,” said a friend, but I was way ahead of him. When I adopted Fippy, I laid in a supply of the pads, just in case. Since the storm, every square inch of my floor is now so completely covered in white pads it looks like it snowed in here, too.
But the dog is refusing to get with the puppy pad program. Once in a while he’ll pick a pad and roll around on it, but all that does is scruff it up, and then I have to smooth it out.
Old Fip just doesn’t want to do his business in the house, in front of me. But eventually, nature will get its way. Yesterday as I was preparing his dinner, he walked over to me, looked up as if to say, “Well, this is embarrassing!” pushed the pad out of his way and deposited a gift at my feet.
“Really, dude?” I said. And there was more to come. Walking downstairs from the office, a surprise puddle was waiting for me on the hardwood floor. My socked foot hit that like an ice patch and down I went. Contrite, Fippy followed me around for the rest of the day. If he could talk, there would be apologies — in his native German, of course.
But he and I have not lost hope. The sun was out this morning and the wind had stopped. We bundled up and headed through the snow trench and out onto the street. Maybe Fip would find a spot.
He did not. Instead, he lifted one paw and began a hop-limp. I picked him up and stuffed him into the top of my coat and walked him back to the house, where he tiptoed across the pads, confused about what’s become of his life after all these years.
Some friends have asked if I’m mad at the dog. Not mad, of course, because he’s adorable, and great company; just frustrated, I guess. Unable to explore the world outside, he’s bored, like the rest of us. A friend suggested I get an astroturf pad for the house, hoping the grass would trick him into using it. But Fippy is too smart for that.
And too much of a gentleman. He just can’t get his mind around doing his business right there on the floor of the house. And really, could you?