Another Fine Mess

The floor was covered in sliver and copper. Chewed paper mingled in the spread of loose change, lumped under small mountains of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies.

It must have been months of change, the leftovers of purchased newspapers long since returned to pulp, the evidence of a meticulous attention to how the smallest parts can summon a generous whole. The mess had started at the door of the room and continued with growing intensity until it found the puppy asleep, running in puppy dreams, atop a pile of coins, the image of a drunken casino rat too stewed to realize he hit three cherries. It's hard to be angry. When you leave a puppy alone in a room, you know that something isn't going to be quite the way you left it when you return.

It becomes a game, a contest between you and the dog, in which the predictability of the owner-pooch dynamic is almost always called into question. When my girlfriend and I go out, whether it be for a quick errand or a movie and dinner, we go through the stages of puppy-proofing the room, removing the easy targets first. Trash cans, pens, knickknacks, and all kinds of low lying objects that can be chewed, emptied or destroyed by urination must be evacuated. The puppy is allowed some pillows, a blanket, and water. The television, often thought to be a comforting device, can be left on or off at the puppy's discretion. (I know a few puppies who absolutely must have their MTV.) After a careful inspection of the sight, and a loving apology, we leave and the game begins.

A good puppy, any puppy worth his salt, will challenge you, find something you would never think he could chew or open or destroy. An intelligent, well thought puppy will open closets, drawers, and cabinets in search of that certain something that will make you think twice about ever leaving him again. A talented puppy will move beyond mindless urination and defecation, and begin to strategically utilize its natural resources. An artistic puppy knows that a well placed poop is the perfect punctuation to an inspired mess.

I must admit that when we return and don't find a mess, I feel a little ripped off. A mess made by a puppy is somehow a cute, entertaining mess. Not the puppy puke kind of mess, but the intentional, retribution mess. The mess that says "I was really bored and that damn Mariah Carey song came on again so I decided to trash your laundry basket." We tend to clean these messes in trances of amazement, embarrassingly out-thought by a furball younger than your favorite pair of shoes.