Hairy Houdini

I'm whipped.  I'm whipped emotionally, physically, mentally and financially.  I just spent yet another $100 and another day working my back side off to try and shore up my perimeter so that my dog will stay put.  That four-legged critter is going to be the death of me.  Or her.  For the moment, at least, I have regained the upper hand in a battle that has been waging for 8 years now.  My back yard looks more like Guantanamo Bay, than a subdivision.  

It all started innocently enough.  A co-worker of mine had two purebred Australian Shepherds that gave birth to a litter of puppies.  He offered me a pup for free so without much deliberation, my wife and I brought home our second fuzzy bundle of joy.  It was easy to fall in love with that little blue merle, bob-tailed, fuzzy bottomed, stick of dynamite, now known as Belle.  I thought I was up to the task because I had owned an Aussie once before and she was, in a word, awesome.  Little did I know she was the 1 in a million exception to the rule.  I wouldn't be quite as lucky the second time. Let me clue you in as to what an Australian Shepherd is like. Combining Albert Einstein, Usain Bolt, Criss Angel, Evel Knievel, a kangaroo, a back hoe, General George S. Patton, a chop saw, Tony Little after 6 double espressos and Mike Tyson will get you pretty close.

  

 

After about a year Belle decided she was going to pull off a coup that would make the IRA proud and oust our Golden Retriever from her alpha-dog throne.  The Golden was only a year older than Belle and was not ready to relinquish the position that came as a by-product of her first come, first serve status.  The fur, quite literally, began to fly. Did I mention that these two beasts were inside dogs at the time?  The inside part came to a prompt end.  In my eternal optimism and painful naivete I thought they'd sort out their differences and all would settle down.  Wrong answer, sir, would you care to spin again?  She was persistent in her determination to hold the top dog honors and the fighting got more and more intense.  After several vet bills, a new hole in my wife's hand and seven puncture wounds in my arm, I finally decided that things weren't going to improve.  So I'm a slow learner.

We sought help from a professional dog trainer, but to no avail.  These two could have made Caesar Milan take to flipping burgers.  Knowing that no one would likely want a headstrong, four-legged version of the anti-Christ, we decided our last option was to keep them, but separated.  Our once peaceful lives had become a full blown gang war, complete with turf boundaries and everything.  Personally I was in favor of committing mass dogicide and calling it a day, but my wife and the SPCA wouldn't allow that.

My naivete knows no bounds, so I thought I could get away with installing an invisible fence to keep her reigned in.  That worked for about 45 seconds.  That's how long it took her to realize that if she hit the boundary at a full run, the tiny, brief shock was miniscule compared to total freedom.  Touche, doggie.  With the ball back in my court and the canine Taliban terrorizing the neighborhood, I knew I had to upgrade the defenses.  And da fences.  I thought, I'd go with straight up voltage and, surely, after a pop on the snoot she'd recognize that she was no match for my superior intellect.  Unfortunately, I had forgotten about the kangaroo part.  So much for my intellect.  Next came the 5 foot high roll of welded wire fence.  That worked for much longer- maybe 5 minutes.  I forgot about the steam shovel part of her DNA.  So I buried welded wire fence around the base of the fence.  I was sure I had finally broken her spirit, but no such luck.  I had forgotten about the Patton part.

By this time, the folks at Home Depot would see me walking in and start to drool like one of Pavlov's, uh... whatever it was Pavlov worked with.  Ferrets or something.  I think I singlehandedly financed three of their employees retirements.  When I add up everything I have spent on keeping these dogs contained, I find myself reverting to a dogicide mentality.  Perhaps more than the monetary cost was the physical cost of having my body covered in a poison sumac rash for 3 weeks that I obtained while trying to string fence.  I didn't know that stuff was sumac at the time.

The battle of wits was elevated to a new level, altogether, when our neighbors got a couple of "snack sized" dogs that loved to come over and run along the fence line, just to stir things up.  Apparently these pint sized bully wannabe's had not dealt with an Aussie, either, or at least not one that had a touch of Satan in her.  My thinking tells me if I'm going to pick on someone 4 times my size I had better be faster or packing heat.  Turns out it was neither, in their case. Much to the snausage's surprise, Belle chewed and pawed through the welded wire fence and commenced to rip them a new one, with the "new one" being a gash across the back.  I didn't like her getting out and creating more work for me, but the neighbors liked it even less.  The neighbors dogs must be dumb, too, because they seemed unfazed.  For once I wished she'd have finished the job.  I hate those little runts, especially after they got after my kids, but I digress.

That leads us to where we are right now.  As of this moment, to gain freedom she has to penetrate an invisible fence with the voltage on her collar set to "poop involuntarily", backed up by an electric fence set to "Drop a Rhino", backed up by a 5 foot high welded wire fence. Like I said, it looks like Gitmo.  She's sitting under a tree, looking inside and I know she's plotting her next move.  Bring it on pooch.  I already have the concertina wire on order.