Last night we returned from dinner about 10:30. Chelsey was waiting where I expected, peering through the back door. Cleo was not where I expected, curled up asleep in her bed in my office. It’s almost always bad news when Cleo varies her routine–you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks. From the mud room I saw debris underneath the dining room table, which has become Cleo’s den. Another bad sign. The dogs had gotten into something. The question was what. A few steps farther I had an answer. Trash was strewn across the kitchen floor. Where had it come from? A few more steps revealed more trash, an entire shredded 13-gallon bag of trash, a doggie heaven of trash, around the kitchen island. Coffee grounds, vegetable scraps, tissues, cardboard, empty cans and bottles, a soggy mess of kitchen refuse. Somehow the dogs had pried open the trash drawer, reached inside the bin to pull out an almost-full bag, and had a garbage party. Chelsey, conscienceless and oblivious, wagged her tail. Cleo, possessor of the 95% of their joint brainpower, sat and watched nervously as we cleaned up, her face the picture of I know I did wrong but I just can’t help myself. We couldn’t figure out how they’d forced open the drawer. The only logical explanation is that we left it open a fraction, just enough for Cleo (because it had to be Cleo) to wedge in her nose and push it open all the way. The alternative–my dogs are capable of opening a fully-closed cabinet drawer–is too scary to contemplate.
Imagine what the mischief they could make with opposable thumbs.