My alpha Poodle Misty had a low boredom level. She could last about three minutes before she was seeking new intellectual endeavors.
Late one afternoon her boredom meter went off when she was watching us paint flats for the community theatre and suddenly she was nowhere in the building.
The volunteer firemen were having a fundraiser next door. Running down the sidewalk, I asked two macho looking young men if they had seen a dog.
”What kind of dog?”
”Toy, miniature, or standard?”
“About this big.”
“Oh, Toy. What color?”
“A silver toy poodle. No ma’am, we haven’t seen her, but we’ll sure keep a look out. She’s probably out back eating barbecue.”
Of course! This was their deep pit barbecue fundraiser. I went to the back of the fire station and there was Misty, surrounded by four or five people on their knees feeding her bits of deep pit barbecue. Dozens more were watching. It seemed to be the evening entertainment.
“Misty,” I yelled.
Oops, gotta go.
She ran up to me without a shred of guilt. Never in her life did Misty grasp the concept of guilt.
As I put her leash on her I was aware of many pairs of eyes watching me. She had run away. She should be disciplined. But one harsh word, and I had the feeling I would be at the bottom of the deep barbecue pit. So I summoned up my harshest I’m-in-one-in-control voice:
“I am very disappointed in you.”
That was as harsh a punishment as she ever got.
We once had an Old English Sheepdog. She was a housedog, but for obvious reasons she was not allowed on the upholstered furniture.
How'd they know? How'd they know?