Inmate Barney, And Contest Winner Announced (Don't Cheat And Scroll Down!)

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So I typed up this post over the weekend and was all set to hit "publish," but then suddenly, for the very first time ever, I started to worry about how it might be received. Was I totally asking for it? What would people think? What if you told me I was a terrible dog owner? Or what if??? So, I deleted it and then sat and festered on the subject for a while. Later it occurred to me that I have no reason to be afraid of you guys, and that this might not be how I want to run this bull honkey anyway. I've never edited myself and I've never gotten purposefully mean comments, so . . . so I am posting this sucker! You know, carpe diem and whatever, with the request that if you finish it and think that I or my dogs are horrible people, that you realize I probably agree with you, and to please hum your favorite hymn instead of telling me so, or something like that. Is that fair? Okay. End of preamble.

Under rain cloud skies I drove the five blocks south to visit my prisoner. I pulled into the gravel drive, parked the car, and pulled a disgustingly filthy squeaky toy from the depths of my purse. I took a deep breath, and walked my sorry self to the front office.

"I'm here to see Inmate Barnaby," I told the blonde lady at the window. She wore a pink t-shirt and grabbed her keys and led me to the far back aisle of the Humane Society, past the roped off area with the sign reading "Quarantine, Do Not Approach," and over to a tiny little cell in the corner. I took another deep breath.

Sometimes I think it must be hard to be a Terrier, don't you? I mean, picture it: all those overwhelming feisty Terrier hormones? Can you even imagine? It must be like having permanent PMS, or something equally horrifying.

Sometimes I forget that Barnaby MacDuff is a grouchy old Scottie, and that Scotties aren't generally considered to be the friendliest of the doggy kingdom. I mean, he's the biggest cuddle bug at home and truly lacks the killer instinct I have come to rely upon from The Pan when it comes to hairy spiders, but when I really stop to think about it, I realize I have known only four Scotties in my life and of those four, three of their owners were smart enough to warn on-comers, "Careful, he's a Scottie, he can be nippy!" I will let you guess who that clueless fourth owner is. Go on. Guess. Last week Barnaby was momentarily overcome by his tempestuous Scottie heritage, and he nipped at a friend. Oh, I know! It was just dreadful, the whole thing made me feel incredibly sick. Our friend was fine, but per Moscow city laws, our little Barnaby MacDuff was sentenced to hard time, behind bars, a ward of the state, at the city Humane Society, for ten whole days.

You know what they say, "Don't do the crime if you can't tell time." Or something?

They told me visitors were welcome, so I stood up tall and prepared myself for the worst. I prepared myself for a tear-stained puppy, sadness and despair and remorse oozing from every pore. I imagined mean, nasty cell mates, snarling and growling and scaring my poor precious baby. I pictured mean wardens refusing to refill his water dish, and a sad doggershop quartet howling in background. It was dire. Oh my poor little jail bird!

Not that he doesn't deserve it, the stinker. Because he does! But I don't. Or, I do, actually. Oh dear. Isn't it awful? Not that certain members of our family haven't enjoyed all of this. Well, Peter Pan, primarily. He is positively living it up, you should know. This life of an only child is the life he knows in his heart he was meant for. He has full reign of all couch cushions these days! Can you picture it? He is so spoiled! On Friday I took him on the greatest walk in all of the Universe. We stopped at a playground to rest and there he played host to a gaggle of elementary school kids who wanted nothing more in their smelly lives than to elect him ruler of their kind and fawn all over him. He was their King! (As dogs who don't nip usually are.) He sat there regally as he was petted and loved on and kissed all over. What a life! While we were there I happened to be recognized by a perfect stranger for the very first time in all of my bloggerdom. She was very tall, this woman, wearing black yoga pants, emerging from a black SUV just to say,

"I just love your blog!"

and then,

"I recognized you from your dog."

And just like that, my puffed ego was deflated and transfered unto my big-nosed dog. I mean, good gravy. Am I merely a Peter Pan vehicle? How depressing for me!

The Humane Society volunteer unlocked Barney's cage and I noticed the soft classical music floating through the air. When the gate swung open I saw the massive towering pile of toys and treats that had been perched lovingly on Barney's pillow by other doting Humane Society volunteers. And, what is this toasty warm column of air that seemed to float from the heavens above? I looked at the filthy squeaky toy in my hand, and then to the pink furry flamingo given to him by one of his many warden admirers, and I realized that all of my worries were completely unfounded. But, isn't this supposed to be dog prison? I wondered? Isn't he in some kind of trouble here? Do you mean to say I have been suffering more than he has, for the love of humanity? And where is that howling doggershop quartet? For crying out loud!

(Dog prison just isn't what it used to be anymore, I suppose.)

I sat down on Barney's pillow and let him wiggle and squiggle and nuzzle and pant all over me and together we had a right old family reunion. After an hour of scratches and snuggles I stood up to leave, and he puddled into a pool of sadness and despair, yelping and crying and howling. I decided that maybe I shouldn't come back to visit until I could take him home with me, you know, for the sake of my patheticness.

And anyway, as The Holbs put it,

"Baby, he's having a vacation! And so are we!"

Barney is freed tomorrow, and The Holbs and I wonder exactly which version of Barney we will be bringing home? Will he be a humbled, contrite Barney? Filled with remorse and committed to a life on the straight and narrow? Or will he come home a hardened criminal, saying things like "Swell!" and "So's your old man!" And possibly with the tatts to prove it?

Anyway, one thing is for sure: He is grounded for life, and I am now the kind of owner who'll smartly remind you, "Careful, he's a Scottie!"

And also this: That dog will always, always be a stinker.

(Now, go easy on us losers!)

P.S. Leigh Anne, you've won! Hooray!

And guess who else won? Michelle! (I forgot I was supposed to give away TWO tickets.) (I am so bad at this.)

The Holbs had a super sophisticated method of picking winners. He explained it to me, but it didn't make no danged sense, so I promptly forgot what he told me. Apologies to all.

Winners, contact me at natalielovin{at}gmail{dot}com, and we'll get you all set up!