Bark is a Four Letter Word

Back to Ripley's adventures, and what she taught me about being a collie owner.

I like to think I'm basically a nice person and a good neighbor.  Don't we all?  I shoveled sidewalks and driveways for my widowed neighbors, I tried hard to keep the poop scooped, and not to yell obscenities at the Pirates in the spring when the windows were open.  I even chatted with the "interesting" guy across the street as if everything coming out of his mouth made perfect sense (which it definitely did not).  But, while I was on friendly terms with the man who lived in the house to my left, his wife did not care for me.  Or more to the point:  she didn't know me, but it was the dogs she really did not like.  I can't say this enough - Yinzers are awesome.  They are small town folks in a big city.  They are warm and open.  But of course, there are exceptions to every rule, and sometimes interests clash.  Being someone who doesn't like dogs who has lived in a place for decades and is suddenly subjected to an outsider coming in with a houseful of them right next to you is a bitter pill to swallow.  I do get it, but while it was obvious she did not care for us, it took me a long while to catch on that was the reason why.  Because, despite the chill in the air between us, she held her tongue.  Then along came Ripley.  Young, energetic, chatty Ripley.

Hanging in the office, looking bored

So, here's some things to know about ourselves as dog owners:  our dogs bark more than we think they do.  And we hear them less than we think we do.  Dogs barking has never bothered me - it's like the soundtrack to my life.  And when I lived in Texas, my dogs were out on two acres.  The lots around us were on that size or larger.  So, I will confess my own sins:  there was some - oh, what's the word? - denial, ignorance, deafness, on my part.  I worked from home and they hung out in my office, they slept with me, and were true companion animals, so they were with me as much as possible in my leisure time as well.  But, it's true, when I took in a Sunday afternoon baseball game, I'd let them have the run of the yard while I watched hoping Andrew McCutchen would go yard.  And, if I had online meetings, I would let them stay outside so they wouldn't a) try to join the conversation or b) need a bathroom break and be stuck with only bad choices.

When I was here, Ripley was out enjoying the sunshine in her own yard

By the time Ripley was an "adolescent", there was only her and Cheyenne, and Cheyenne's barking days were largely over.  Always one to believe that actions spoke louder than barks, that wasn't her style anyway.  So there is no doubt who the culprit would be.  But I was still living in happy ignorance that I had a culprit in my midst because when my neighbor chose to speak up, it was not to me.  Apparently anytime Ripley got on her nerves she was calling the police.  And apparently they would drive by, not hear anything and dismiss it.  Yet somewhere there was a record of all those calls.  I would be told later they were in the "dozens".  She must have been picking up the phone as soon as Ripley opened her mouth and every time she did.

Ripley and Charlie found hockey less stimulating than I do

But it was the fateful April night of the opening game of the 2014 Stanley Cup playoffs where it caught up with us.  Ripley, Cheyenne and I were home alone.  The Penguins were facing the Columbus Blue Jackets, who we all thought would be an easy opening round opponent, the Jackets being young and unproven.  Yet right out of the gate, they set out to prove us all wrong.  By this time, Ripley knew hockey, or the sound of it anyway.  She had learned the sound of the horn announcing the end of a period meant that I would be temporarily released from its spell, so she would sleep or play with toys, or lay next to me until that horn blast, and then she'd beeline it to the backdoor and demand to be let out - really probably whether she needed to or not; it had become a routine.  Intermission meant everyone took a potty break, stretched their legs, calmed their nerves (well, that was me that had to do that), and then would meet back up for the next period.  But not that night.  She needed out in the middle of the first.  I distractedly let her out quickly at a commercial.   Then, I confess it, I didn't think about her again until the magic horn sounded, and the period was over.   Then I was the one who was up like a shot and ran out to bring her in.

The Penguins won the game 4-3. but it was a nail biter.  The dogs and I went up to bed, relieved we got the win, bladders all nice and empty, completely unaware that Ripley and I were about to be called to account for my lapse.