craigdailypress.com

Christina M. Currie

Christina M. Currie's Touch of Spice column appears Fridays in the Craig Daily Press. E-mail her at director@craig-chamber.com

There was only one way to say it. We officially were white trash.

The yard was littered with broken toys, hangars, shoes, socks, pillows, stuffed animals with their innards strewn across the snow, ribbon and ripped up pieces of paper.

Something needed to go, even though it looked like there might be nothing left. Unfortunately, the culprit was a 20-some pound miniature Australian Shepherd who is too much a part of the family to boot.

Besides, he'd already eaten my boots.

So, Pan became an outdoor dog.

Don't get me wrong, he still gets a place next to me at bedtime, but he's lost the privilege of unlimited, unmonitored travel between the house and the yard.

I'm having a hard enough time keeping him in bones, and I can't afford anymore losses to my shoe collection.

It's been working fairly well. Right now, there's only one pillow in the yard, and that's Pan's "special friend."

I went home at lunchtime one day, ostensibly to grab a bite, but really to make sure Pan wasn't too cold.

He didn't greet me at the gate like he usually does, so I got a little worried and called for him.

And out from under the deck came a black and white fox terrier. Cute dog, but not really a fair trade.

Pan came running when I called and bolted straight into the yard.

And the fox terrier (who fit easily between the gate and the post) bolted straight out.

Hmmm.

Oh, well. Problem solved.

At least, that one was - I'll have to wait until the spring thaw before the problem of Pan being able to step right over the fence is taken care of.

At about 5:30, Kevin called.

We evidently had three dogs.

Fox terrier invited his friend Yorkie to prowl the neighborhood, and they were stuck in the yard. Pan stayed. When the party's at your house, there's evidently no need to roam.

Eight-year-old Katie ran up to the car as soon as I pulled into the driveway.

"Mom! The worst thing has happened! Two other dogs are here. But it's OK. We're taking good care of them."

Oh, my. It's already started.

"We're not getting any more dogs!" I yelled at the back of her head as she raced away to check her charges.

"Do not let them in the house!"

Time had passed, and I figured that without two little girls keeping our visitors trapped in an upturned doghouse, our guests would have left.

Wrong.

They were huddled outside the door, shivering and looking generally miserable.

"One night. Just one. We'll find their owners in the morning."

I know, I know. I was weak. But they were little, and they were cold.

And they knew just what buttons to push.

"Do not feed them," I said in as stern a voice as I could muster.

They climbed onto Kevin's chest, curled up and stared deep into his eyes. While he lay there with a goofy grin on his face, he talked about how dirty and emaciated the two looked. (He liked them both, but the scruffy Yorkie had him on his first yip. We referred to that one as "Little One," which became less descriptive and more endearing as the night went on.)

Good grief. I was getting absolutely no help with this situation. It didn't help that Kevin was quite comfortable sleeping with two dogs at his feet and one curled up on his chest. I already had told the girls that they absolutely were not sleeping with someone else's dogs.

The next day, I made Kevin and the girls put all the dogs outside.

I also noticed that Pan's dish, which Kevin filled that morning, had about four times the normal amount of food in it.

The next day, Foxy found his way home and we found the real owners for "Little One," whose real name is "Puppy." (I don't know how we didn't guess that.)

And now, I keep hearing quiet words that sound disturbingly like "golden retriever."

God help me. I know I'm going to wish I'd caved and said yes to the one dog that couldn't get out the door with one of my shoes.