My Dog, the Red-Handed Idiot

I love my dog. If you know us, or have reading for a while, you know that is not in question. But he can be an idiot. (As can we all.)

When I came home tonight from work Hayes didn't meet me at the door. Usually he comes running when he hears me. The only time he doesn't meet me is when he's been really bad, tearing things up or getting into something. So, when he didn't come running tonight, I wasn't all that surprised.

I looked around the corner from the entryway and saw some torn up trash. I called, "Dog?" but no answer. Not a peep. I walked into the bedroom. "Dog?" He wasn't in his bed, or anywhere that I could see in the room. Laundry room? Nope. I was starting to get worried. "Hayes?"

I heard the faintest whimper behind the bathroom door. When I opened the door, the scene was clear.

Apparently, sometime after I went to work (and after wedging the bathroom door closed to keep out bored dogs), the dog broke through it. While throwing around the trash bin to empty all its contents, the bin pushed up against the door and locked him in. When I freed him, he looked seriously disheveled, hot and sweaty, and eager to get out.

I couldn't help but think that it served him right, his craziness getting him locked in a small room all day. And any hope he might have had that I wouldn't have known it was he who had destroyed my house (he's the only one here during the day) was totally lost when he was caught red-handed.