As you may recall, Dumpster Dog recently spent the week at my home while my sister was in Cuba. Dumpster Dog and I have a love-hate relationship; she loves to find trouble and I hate waking up to find it.
Well, this hound dog was home less than a week before she was stirring up trouble. She's just that good folks.
It was early morning as my mother, home for a brief break, rose and started a pot of coffee. She popped her bread in the toaster and opened the jar of peanut butter. it was then, with the scrape of her knife meeting toast that Dumpster Dog (with her superego senses) came barrelling down the stairs.
If I hadn't you didn't know any better you'd think her ears were leading the way but no, it was her nose. You'd be amazed as to what smells good to a dog.
"Out, damn Dumpster Dog, out!" my mother exclaimed propelling the hot dog out the patio door. The door was left open a crack and Dumpster Dog was left to her own devices in the garden.
Approximately two hours passed and it was discovered that Dumpster Dog is nowhere to be found. The yard is fenced in, the only gate is secured by two heavy duty bolts; this is not the first time the bitch's nose has led her astray. The family dispersed, searching in vain for the hound, she is nowhere to be found.
Fast forward a couple of hours. My mother and sister are shopping. My father is enjoying a house free of estrogen.
Then comes a knock at the door.
On the other side is an old lady, her face tight with some emotion that can only be described as bad. This lady is my grandmother; this lady has broken her foot.
As it turns out, the determined 75 year old was attempting to stake a piece of rebar next to a tree. The tree was crooked, you see, and you'd hate to waste a good tree (being Dutch has nothing to do with it). As Granny teetered atop a step ladder, sledge hammer in one hand, rebar in the other she took a tumble and her old ankle was unable to support her weight.
Not being one to waste time or mince words, the tough old broad promptly drove to the hospital, confirmed her foot was broken, made arrangements to have a pin put in and drove back to my parents' home.
I never asked how many pain killers were involved; I don't want to know. I can tell you, with assurance, that we country type are a tough breed..
My father deposited my grandmother in a chair and called my mother to suggest it best if she come home (this is my maternal grandmother after all). His silence infiltrated by a woman, Dad waited in defeat.
It was at that moment that a familiar "AAAAAHHROUUUUUUUUU" is heard through the house. It is Dumpster Dog, but where is she??!? My father searched the house and yard (with suggestion from my out-of-commission grandmother, I'm sure) and no dog is found. The thing is still howling away but there is no ball of fur and bits to match it.
Where was the mini-beast? Well, it turns out she had nosed her way into the trap door of the compost bin, following the delicious smell of week old fish. I have no idea what happened then (or why the fish was in the compost). It is assumed, after her scrumptious breakfast of rotten fish, Dumpster Dog took an extended nap. People, this is the dog that was found in a garbage can as a pup - she does not like enclosed spaces.
Needless to say, my father's afternoon went from an empty house to one filled with three women, the oldest of which was loaded on pills and bitter she hadn't gotten the rebar staked before she broke her foot. There was also a dog, a Dumpster Dog who wreaked of fish and needed a bath.
I think he finished the morning with vodka. Can you blame him?
Finding fish funny,