Why Dogs are Good Practice for Kids

The following documents our dog-sitting adventures post-Thanksgiving (see our previous post for an understanding of where said adventure fits within our larger month of non-stop traveling).

Following a delicious Thanksgiving dinner, we headed back up to Monteverde with Ernesto's parent's black lab, Beto, in tow. We were in charge of dog-sitting Beto for the week while Ernesto's mom was in Tampa.

Now, before I tell this tale, let me make a few things clear.  First, Ernesto's mom has done a BRILLIANT job training Beto.  Out of all the family dogs, including our Kaia, he is the most obedient dog on walks.  He's a very lovable, playful guy, but you can trust him around food as much as you can trust Lindsey Lohan around substances.  Ernesto's mom is very mindful of Beto's weaknesses and rarely has problems with him anymore.  Of course, given temptation, Beto - like many dogs - has trouble resisting. And we gave Beto plenty of unintended temptations during his stay with us in Monteverde.  I readily acknowledge that what follows is nearly entirely the result of human error.

Normally we keep our trash in our laundry room, usually hanging from ceiling hooks to discourage both mice and Kaia from invading it.  Due to our prior traveling, however, we'd missed several trash days and had too many bags of trash to solely hang from the ceiling.  So we kept the seven bags of rotting gunk on the laundry room floor and created a barricade to the room by placing the bottom pull-out drawer from our first oven (which is still MIA, by the way) upright across the door's threshold.

During the first day of Beto's stay, I triple barricaded the laundry room entry, by placing two kitchen chairs in front of the oven drawer. Unfortunately, I was less careful the following day, only using the oven drawer as a blockade. Ernesto arrived home to seven completely destroyed trash bags, four piles of dog doo-doo, and a floor barely perceptible under the mounds of rubbish.  Ernesto wasn't happy.  Had he been happier, I might have taken a picture of the mess.  It really was impressive.  Of course, the dogs weren't happy either, having eaten all sorts of things that they shouldn't have.

The next day I went to pick up our cleaning lady, Maria (who comes once a week to help deal with messes, such as these).  In the car I explained to her and her son (who was helping that day) what had transpired in the laundry room the previous day.  The dogs were only alone for ten minutes between the time Ernesto left for work and I returned with my cleaning crew.  In the interim, Beto left a souvenir of the previous day's rummaging in the form of a giant dog pie, dropped splat on the middle of the kitchen floor.  Embarrassed, I cleaned the poop up with a plastic bag that I found on the floor, while Beto wagged his Labrador tail, sniffed our guests' crotches, rolled over for ample belly-rubs, and generally charmed the pants off of everyone (but me).

An hour later, as I prepared the batter for Christmas cookies, I couldn't find the 13 fresh eggs we'd received from our neighbor's farm (the one who sold us the cow).  Often Maria will move things, so I asked her if she had relocated the eggs while cleaning the kitchen.  In reality, I had asked Maria if she had moved Thursday (jueves and huevos always confuse me).  After some further explanation and gesticulating, Maria figured out that I was asking her where my eggs were.  She didn't know, so she asked her son, who was cleaning in another room.  He didn't know either.  Then I remembered the plastic bag that was conveniently lying on the kitchen floor while I cleaned up the dog poop.  That plastic bag was blue and white, which happened to be the same color as the bag that had housed our 13 fresh eggs on the kitchen counter . . . a kitchen counter beyond the reach of Kaia, but not beyond the ample reach of her big little-brother, Beto.  I realized that Beto could reach the counter at the same moment that Maria found a tiny piece of egg shell on the floor.  No other evidence of the crime existed - no other shell, no yolk, no egg white.  13 eggs, gone in less than 10 minutes.   I tied the two sluggish sun-bathing dogs to the front porch while I ran out to buy more eggs.

On Thursday evening, we scrambled to pack our things for an Institute trip to the beach, followed by a drive directly to San Jose to pick up my parents at the airport.  We were a bit stressed and only half packed when the power went out.  We spent a good fifteen minutes finding, lighting, and disseminating candles throughout the house before heading to the bedroom to continue packing.  As I walked back into the kitchen/living room I caught wind of something really unpleasant.  I went to each candle and inhaled deeply, trying to identify the source of the rancid odor, and while no candle I examined smelled good - always interlaced with a hint of repugnance - none of the candles smelled terrible either.  As Ernesto approached Beto, he realized that he was the culprit.  Or his rear end was the culprit, more accurately.  Not only was Beto dropping trash and egg-laced silent-but-deadly bombs, but his physical body was emitting an indescribably foul stench as well.  After Ernesto took Beto out for several more potty trips, Ernesto and Beto retreated to the bedroom and settled into their respective beds.  I took a shower.  When I got out of the shower the bedroom stunk so badly that we mutually agreed that Beto had to sleep in a different room.  And so we went to bed, still half packed, with no power, and inhaling toxic fumes.

The alarm sounded at 4:45 the next morning.  We scrambled to pack the car with dogs and luggage and make it to the Institute by 5:30am, which was when the mini-van that we would follow would depart.  It was cold, windy, and drizzling as we drove to the beach, but Beto still stunk so badly that we drove with the windows wide open.  While our colleagues in the mini-van were bundled up, I alternated between hanging my head out the window and struggling to keep Beto's toxic tush on the blanket.

Beto, of course, was happy as a clam, passing gas as quickly as a Hummer uses it.

      Don't let Beto's innocent puppy eyes fool you - when it comes to thievery, he's a pro!