MY LIFE AS THE PRISONER OF A BOSTON TERRIER

I am not a great housekeeper. I prefer to live in a laid back, I’ll get around to it later atmosphere. Therefore, I should not own a Boston terrier. To co-exist happily with a Boston, you really need to be a fastidious, organized, always straightening, whacked-out cleaning machine. Otherwise, you will find yourself amid ankle high destruction the likes of which you will never see again. Dropping something and having it actually hit the floor will be a thing of the past. Because in the home of a Boston, her keen instincts will let her know when any item has left your fingertips and she will have snatched the object out of mid-air and taken it to her favorite spot and demolished it within nanoseconds, before you even realize you have dropped it. Daisy is no exception to the Boston rule. She is always within 2 inches of my feet and ready on a moment’s notice to bolt into action and grab up any falling goodie for her amusement. I am a bit clumsy, and tend to drop things a lot, so I am a constant source of enjoyment for my sweet Weapon of Mass Destruction.

I am not able to leave things on tables, take off my shoes, have cushions on my couch or loveseat, or leave any room open to the rest of the house. I have had to put a lock on my bedroom door, because Daisy has figured out how to open it and invade my room in a whirlwind of annihilation of all belongings I hold dear. I have to be constantly on the look out for contraband.
(some items found in the couch)
Out of the corner of my eye one morning, I glimpsed something shiny sticking up between the cushions on my couch. A steak knife!!! Sharp point up. Thank goodness I am a loner and never have anyone to my home! Someone might have had a fairly embarrassing visit to the local emergency room. At least on that morning, the cushions were still on the couch. Most of the time, Daisy pulls them off and drags them around the house to use as step stools to get up on other furniture. She is very adept at fashioning tools.

She has broken into the locked bathroom somehow, and stolen my Lady Schick electric razor, which I found on the couch cushion on the floor in the dining room, chewed into several pieces and spit out, apparently in favor of some more enticing morsel at the moment.

I had to take my glasses in a baggie to Jacob (he is an optician and my eye guy…) to have repaired because Daisy had devoured them and left only one lens and a bit of one arm. I have since been informed they are far beyond repair and will need to be replaced. Now I am afraid to tell Jacob that she snuck into my room the other night while I was cooking dinner—I thought the kitchen seemed strangely easy to maneuver, but it didn’t dawn on me it was because Daisy was not underfoot---and ate the arm off my reading glasses. Maybe he will read this and take sympathy on his poor old mom and offer to repair them without a lecture. Speaking of lectures, my mother constantly tells me I need to give Daisy something to chew on. She suggests a towel tied in knots. A smart suggestion if we were dealing with the everyday, generic model of dog. But we are dealing with a Boston terrier. So I explain that I buy a box of rawhide chews every week, I have thrown away several chewed and shredded towels, socks, underpants and a blouse and Daisy has so many “toys” I can barely navigate around my house. The only toy I have found to date that Daisy is incapable of destroying is an empty 2 liter bottle, with about one half the air squeezed out and the cap on. It is loud and bounces away from her, keeping her happily occupied right up until she spots something of great sentimental value to me. Then it is “screw the bottle, I’m gonna obliterate mom’s favorite picture…” I have also found that empty 2 liter bottles are a joy to step on in the middle of the night. They have centrifugal force and absolutely no “give” and can send even a hefty human being flying.

I now have a box in my living room for shoes. When I take off my in-the-house-shoes, I have to get them into the box instantly and get the shoes I am going to wear on my feet just as quickly or they will be lost into the black hole of Daisy’s hippo sized mouth. My once comfortable shoes now have no insoles. I walk on a woody feeling shoe base thanks to my dear hooligan.

Pup and Daisy are both trained to Piddle Pads. Pup took to them happily and has rarely missed the mark. She prances over to the nearest pad and quite daintily does her business, then looks around for applause and saunters off. Daisy, on the other hand, thinks used Piddle Pads are much more useful for throwing up into the air to watch the “contents” scatter. After which, we all know what happens to things between the air and hitting the ground…

Any semblance of home decoration has given way to a plethora of boxes, locks and shelves to protect my few salvageable treasures from Daisy’s wrath. What can’t be packed away or put out of reach has been chewed up and spat out like so much trash. When Jacob was a baby, I proudly told people I didn’t need to child proof my house; that I had taught him what he was allowed to touch and what was off limits. And it was true. Jacob was a wonderful kid who learned quickly and was eager to please. Nothing like Miss Daisy. She is insistent upon teaching me that nothing I have has any value to her except as a means to ease the nagging throb of gums that need exercising.

I felt a surge of hysteria when I noticed a few days ago that the back of my dining room chair was chewed up. My beautiful pristine solid pine furniture was a mangled shell of its former self. I may have to take the table and four chairs apart and store them in a box…why have furniture when I can have a Boston terrier? Seems like a fair trade.

So, Mr. President, search no further, the Weapon of Mass Destruction that continues to elude you is right here...