Return of the Mac

Let’s cut to the chase. El Caballo has some separation anxiety. We were not properly warned.

I recall reading on Petfinder.com about a sweet boy with a sad past who loves his foster sibling dogs, is fully house trained and does just fine in a crate when his humans need to leave the house. I don’t know who that sweet, sad boy was, but he is not. Not. Not my Little Mac.

When we first got the beast, we put Mac in the kitchen and baby-gated him in just in case he and the Blonde Bombshell decided to have a few words while we were at work.

What was I thinking?

He treated that baby gate like a croquet hoop.

And he treated the rest of our house like a Port-O-Potty. More specifically, a row of Port-O-Potties. Let’s just say the boy had a bone to pick with the Play Station. (Amen, brother.) And he seemed to be disappointed with our décor. He felt it needed a bit more… garbage. I mean, just straight up garbage. Everywhere. Who knew used coffee grounds tasted so delicious to the canine palette?

So let’s try a crate! He loved his crate at his foster home! Like a day at a spa!

I must have accidentally adopted Houdini, y’all, because we got home and that boy was out and his crate was still in one piece. And we were only gone an hour. So we zip-tied the corners of his crate so he couldn’t pop the ends off, which was the only way we could figure he’d gotten himself out. The next day, we got home to bars pried apart and one toothless, bloody mouth. And did I mention how far he can pee? When he gets that leg up, I honestly contemplate entering him in the Olympics or something. Then I cry myself to sleep.

So maybe the crate was too small? We weren’t too sure. So we went back to our friendly neighborhood Pet Smart and bought another new crate. “Sturdy,” it said. “Reinforced Steel,” it claimed. “Tested by the Hulk, he never knew what hit him,” read the box.

Move over, Hulk.

This crate seemed to really upset Mac. He popped off the ends; we zip-tied the corners. He pried apart the bars. With no teeth, mind you. We came home and found drops of bloody drool in weird places. Like the ceiling. All I can figure is that he did one of his patented face shakes where his jowls look like a flamenco dancer and he showers everyone within a 3 miles radius. It’s a real treat.

One day, during Crate #2, I came home to find Houdini out and about, looking very proud of himself for solving the puzzle that we made increasingly harder every day. Carly, in the meantime, met me every day with this very knowing look on her face, like, “Mama, I tried to stop him. I said, ‘Stop that, stupid,’ but he wouldn’t listen. I told him to leave the trashcan alone, but he just ignored me. You keep that in mind when you start yelling. I’ll just sit over here and watch.” He seemed to have pried the door away from the rest of the crate. He pried it to an oval shape with a diameter of about 4 inches. And got out of that space. Y'all, his head it almost 7 inches across. Thus the new nickname: Houdini.

I don’t know, I still like El Caballo better. But he is a Wizard. Fo’ sho’.

Then, the last straw: He pried the bars straight off the rest of the crate. Again, with no teeth. I don’t know if he just hates being confined or hates being away from us or he just thinks, “Well, that blonde punk is out, so they must want me to figure out how to get out too…” We got home, he was out, and the crate was in pieces.

And the house was redecorated. Obviously.

The next night, we tried the bathroom. And boy, that was an adventure.