Miss Maudie: Year One

 Day One: "What is this place?"

I saw her as I strolled through the San Bernardino City Shelter with a friend. We were looking for her dog, a gorgeous German Shorthair Pointer that had somehow been left behind. Jeanette works with this breed in cadaver search and recover, and she’d seen Maggie’s profile online. I agreed to go with her to “look” (ha ha ha ha ha) because it had been a year since Thomas died, and I kept wanting to believe I was ready for another dog. (Here’s the truth: We’re never “ready,” are we? Like, “Okay, whew, I’m over that heartache. Where’s my new dog?” Nope. Not ever. Still… I needed a hiking partner. Maya needed a sibling. It was time. It was hard.)

Then I saw a blue heeler curled in the tightest dog donut ever. Thomas, you may recall loyal reader, was one quarter Australian cattle dog. But… I was looking for a male. The kennel card indicated this was a female. And a two-year-old. I didn’t want a young dog. (We older folks are constantly doing math: I was 70. If the dog lived to be 16, I would be 84. Would long dog walks be sustainable…?)

The stray hold on Jeanette’s dog wasn’t up yet, so we left. I came back the next day and sat by the little heeler’s kennel, talking quietly to her. I came back twice more, the final time with Jeanette on the day she picked up Maggie to take her home forever. I started to leave with them.

“Weren’t you going to do a meet & greet with that blue heeler?” she asked.

Sigh. I supposed so.

When the kennel worker saw which dog I wanted to meet, she physically cringed, her shoulders slumping.

“Okay,” she said, “We’re going to go really slow with this one.”

I waited 15 minutes for her to get the terrified dog cornered and leashed. When they emerged, finally, from the kennel area, the dog straining at the end of the leash, trying to escape, the whites of her eyes showing, I stood quietly grounded, not making eye contact. As soon as my girl saw me, she ran to me, dragging the kennel worker along behind. The anxious dog sat on my feet, then turned and stood, placing her paws on my waist, begging to be picked up. As if she were a puppy.

“Whoa. She’s never done that before,” the kennel worker said.

“I guess she’s going home with me,” I said.

In the weeks that followed, I ascertained this from Miss Maudie’s behavior:

1. She had been someone’s spoiled baby. When I showed her around the house, she saw the couch and wanted to climb up on it, but she looked to me for permission first. “No,” I told her. “No dogs on the couch.” She has never tried to get up there since.

2. She had some type of obedience training. When I asked her to sit, she would move around behind me and sit on my left side, as dogs learn in some classes. She still does this.

3. She had been hit and kicked in her past life. This became clear immediately. If I raised my hand, she ducked. If I lifted a leg, she jumped away. I learned to move slowly, to signal to her that I was just going to pick up something or put something down. She still flinches at times when I touch her without warning her first.

4. She is wary of adults, but reactive to young children. Twice on the hiking trail she has lunged at and tried to nip very young kids with absolutely no provocation, just the kids walking silently past. It triggers something in her. I think I know what that is.

For the uninitiated, there is a children’s cartoon entitled “Bluey.” The main character is a blue heeler (or the cartoonish semblance of one). My great-granddaughter loves Bluey. Sadly, kids’ love of the show has caused parents to buy puppies “just like Bluey!” Except… your average cattle dog is nothing like the kind, mild-mannered cartoon character. Cattle dogs are sassy and independent. And they nip. Boy howdy, do they nip. I’ve had Miss Maudie 366 days as of today. She has nipped me at least that many times, if not twice that many. She has never done this aggressively; she nips when she’s happy or excited. Still. It pinches….

I suspect that Maudie was someone’s beloved puppy. Until she wasn’t. Until she grew up and asserted herself and nipped, whether out of joy or because someone was smacking or kicking her. Then she was dumped. Or, more likely, the “reporting party” that had her picked up by animal control, claiming she was a “stray,” had had enough of her.

Their loss. My gain.

Maudie is my ride or die out on the trail. She will stand between me and anything, big or small, be it bobcat, coyote, raccoon, or human. Her joy abounds—especially if there’s water, her favorite thing to find in the whole world. She loves that even more than dead decaying animal carcasses to roll in. (Ick.)

What she can do now:

Walk nicely on a leash with Maya.

Release a toy/bone/whatever at my command “Let me have it.”

Stand still when we see critters at my “NO CHASE” command (which must be given sternly, because damn it, she wants to herd those deer!).

Give kisses on command. (Thank you, Maudie!)

Return to me every time I call. (“Come by me!” is the command.)

Untangle herself from her leash at the command “Fix yourself.” (This is fun and amazing to watch.)

Jump into the truck (“Load up!”) and straight into the crate she travels in, turning around and waiting for me to zip her in.

Wait patiently for her food until I release her with the “Okay!” command.

Speaking of patience; she is the most patient dog I’ve ever had. I write in the morning. She waits. I walk her and Maya early, then eat breakfast, then sit down to work. She knows at the end of my writing session, she gets another walk. She will lie patiently for as long as it takes—until I stand up. Then she’s on her feet in seconds, wagging her tail, ready to go.

Maudie loves Maya. Like, loves her. Kisses her, nips her, nuzzles her, and did try to cuddle up to her at first but Maya snapped at her. Aww, poor Maudie!

Maudie hates Jenny. Disdains her. Lifts her lip and bares her teeth at her. Jenny will never cease in her effort to make peace with her. But that’s why I love Jenny; she reminds me daily that we can love those who don’t love us in return, who treat us in ways we don’t deserve. Hey, it’s their problem, right? Not ours. Good kitty, Jen!

Has it been 366 days of love and joy with Miss Maudie? No. It certainly has not.

She hoovers up as many things as she can get away with while we’re out walking, literally trotting down the street with her nose between her front feet. Her favorite day is the day after trash day. She has stolen food that people left on graves—cheeseburgers, chow mien noodles, green… stuff. She has managed to find at least two rotting rabbit bones and crunched them down before I could even give her the command to “leave it.”

Like other dogs of her ilk, she loves to roll in nasty stuff, the nastier, the better. (Her life motto seems to be “Anyone’s trash is my treasure.”) She is so smart, she has learned to drop back behind me on the trail so she can roll in something behind my back so that I don’t see her and stop her.

She is dirty more often than she is clean.

But hey, she will come right into the shower with me and allow me to bathe her, so there’s that.

And even when she’s naughty, she is at least entertaining. Even when she’s nipping me.

So here’s to whomever decided to ditch this dog: Thanks! She is loyal and loving and hilarious and beautiful. Your trash. My treasure.

How Maya is Grieving

 

Maya Angelou Murphy

A number of people have asked how Maya and Jenny the Cat have been doing since Thomas left us. Both feel his absence, for sure, and I have no doubt that they sense my sadness as well. Consequently, Jenny has slept with me every night since our last day with him. I believe cats sense when humans are ill, and she interprets my sadness as a state of being unwell. (Purrl, before her, could also sense when I was physically ill or deeply sad, and she would crawl under the covers in those times and place her body against mine, purring as a mother cat would do with kittens—even though Purrl never had any of her own.)

Maya is another story altogether. Thomas, it seems, was her assumed body guard. When Thom could still go for walks, I would sometimes walk them together around the block, and Maya would actually be happy and excited on the leash. (In case you’re unaware, unless we’re hiking, Maya hates going for walks—because it’s just “too peoply” out there.) In the morning, with Thomas here, Maya would run into and through the kitchen, then tear through the living room, looking for things to play with, hopping and wagging her tail and barking if I didn’t get her breakfast ready fast enough. It was hilarious and entertaining every morning.

At the time of this writing, Thomas has been gone for two weeks and two days, and for two weeks and two days, Maya has gone right back to the safety of her bed after we come back in from the back yard. No running through the house. No hopping. No playing. She looks for him in the kitchen, and when she sees he isn’t there, she simply retreats to the den and curls up again.

This makes me very, very sad for her. She had come so far, but seems to be withdrawing again. I’m giving her extra love, of course, and simply going to sit with her often. But she has lost her rock, her anchor. (It’s probably a good thing she doesn’t realize that looking to Thomas for protection would be like Dorothy looking to the Cowardly Lion to do the same.)

As some of you know, months before I lost Thom, I had begun looking for a dog companion for Maya, a confident dog that would help her continue to recover and make her feel safe on walks, perhaps draw her out to interact with me more. And I wanted to get a new dog settled into my pack before Thomas left us, so that his passing would be easier on Maya. Alas, that did not happen. But, to that end….

<Spoiler alert: Big Announcement ahead>

On Friday, I adopted a dog. Before you go thinking that I rushed out to my nearest shelter and impulsively grabbed a sweet dog to comfort me in my grief, let me assure you it did not happen that way. Like, at all. This dog’s story—and I do know the entire back story—is so complex and complicated that names will be changed to keep the guilty from being publicly shamed, and I won’t even be able to share all of it here. But in my next post, I’ll give you an update on my new little girl, Stevie (not her original name), and I’ll tell you as much as I can. (If you want the full story after that, you’ll have to call me and be sworn to lifelong secrecy.)

For now, I can tell you this: Despite everything that has happened to her in recent weeks, Stevie is filled with joy and enthusiasm. Her tail never stops wagging. She loves everyone she meets—people, dogs (cats, I hope). She’s got sass and spirit (thus her name; that’s “Stevie” from Schitt’s Creek, not Stevie Nicks, though she would do for a namesake, too).

That’s all I know for now because she isn’t even home yet. She’s still in dog jail. I can’t pick her up until her spay surgery, and that can’t happen until Tuesday because of the holiday. Oh my dragons! Hasn’t this dog endured enough?? But wait—you don’t know that part of the story yet. More to come, but let me conclude by sharing one more thing.

You may be thinking that I’m all excited about bringing a new dog home. The truth is, I am 20% excited and 80% terrified. New situations and changes in routine are very difficult for me, to say the least. I function much better when things are the same, day after day—calm, steady, predictable. This is part of my mental health journey, and though I am aware of it, that doesn’t make new situations any easier. I know. You’re thinking, “New dog! Yay!” and I’m over here wringing my hands and worrying about whether my new girl will chase Jenny or pee on the carpeting or somehow (heaven help us) escape the yard. But I felt exactly this way when I brought Maya home. Well, no, with Maya I was 10% excited, 90% terrified. OK, maybe 5% excited. Really. Same with Thomas. And look what became of that.

So if you call to get the whole scoop on Stevie and I sound flustered, just reassure me that the sun will rise the next day, Jenny will come out from under the bed eventually, and Stevie will add another dimension of joy to this home that has been far too quiet without the tip-tapping of Thomas’s feet on the floor. Stay tuned. Here we go…. And may the New Year bring a new dimension of joy to your life as well (preferably a rescue dog, but that’s just my own bias speaking).

Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, eight years in

 

I didn’t want to let January slip by without acknowledging that special “Gotcha Day” for Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. When I adopted him, my vet said he was “six-ish.” Oh my dogs, that was eight years ago….

My best boy is fourteen now. In the last four years, he’s been diagnosed with pemphigus, pancreatitis, irritable bowel syndrome, arthritis, and age-related bronchitis. He eats special food and has more medications stockpiled than I do. His eyes are getting foggier, and he is rapidly losing his hearing. (Turns out that last malady is a godsend; he never woke at all when the fireworks began on New Year’s Eve.) Although he can no longer hike with me, he still enjoys his daily ride in the truck, using a ramp to walk in and out of the extra cab.

With every passing month, his decline is more pronounced. Conversely, with every passing day, he becomes more and more in love with being loved.

It’s hard to believe that this is the same dog that hated being touched when I first brought him home. I had to leave his collar on all the time because getting close to him required herding him into a corner so that he had no way out. Once I had his collar, I could clip the leash on, and he would come along, but reluctantly. (It is exactly the same behavior Maya exhibits now, by the way, so I have every confidence that someday she will no longer panic when I approach her.)

He still hates going for walks, because he hates having the leash on. (“Something bad must be about to happen,” is what he thinks—the whole time. Always.) But he’s so happy now, that even though he still resists getting his collar on, he makes a game out of it. He does this every. single. day. Even if he’s not feeling well. You can see that crazy game if you click here. (I took the video for this post, so yeah, it’s him last week.)

I had him two years before Thom let me rub his belly. Funny how that happened. He only ever wanted to be outside, in a far corner of the yard, curled in a ball. (Again, this is Maya’s behavior now, only she’s in the den, not outside, and that’s where she stays all day, every day, except when we take potty breaks or go for a walk or hike.) At my vet’s suggestion, I made Thomas come inside for a while each day, and I gave him a soft bed to curl up in while he was there. I’d been watching some ridiculous daytime show that demonstrated dog massage, all of which I thought was a bunch of hooey, but while I was petting him, I just started doing it—massaging his head and the back of his neck. After a few minutes, he was so relaxed, he rolled over on his back. I couldn’t believe it. I tried to replicate the experience the next day, but he wasn’t having it. It was weeks before he did it again, and after that, only rarely.

But then I retired. When I did, our days hiking increased. Our time together increased. He began sleeping next to my bed at night (instead of outside or in the garage, as he had once preferred). If I wake in the night, I lean over the side and rub his back, just to hear him sigh that sweet doggie sigh of contentment.

Three years ago, I asked him one night if he ‘wanted brush,’ holding up his dog brush and setting it on the floor outside my bathroom as I finished brushing my teeth. He laid down on the floor and waited, and when I finished, I sat with him for twenty minutes, brushing out his fur and singing to him (and Purrl, because she’s always jealous and has to be in on everything, like all pushy cats). The next night, I stepped out of the bathroom after brushing my teeth, only to find him waiting in the same spot, looking up at me expectantly. “Seriously?” I said. “Okay.” I sat on the floor and brushed him again.

Thus began our ritual of “getting love” every night before we go to bed. I don’t always brush him. Sometimes I give him head rubbies or a back massage. But you know, I highly recommend the practice. It becomes like a meditation. Just fifteen minutes or so of quiet and deliberate relaxation and deep breathing before bed. With a dog, of course (or cat, I don’t discriminate—but if it’s a cat like Purrl, she’s going to climb up and claim your lap and then God help you when you try to get up). It still takes him several minutes of quiet brushing or back rubs to feel secure and relaxed enough to flop over on his side. When he does, he often dozes off now, sprawled on the floor, knowing that he is safe and loved, and that tomorrow when he wakes up there will be good food and treats (after his walk) and lots of soft blankies for napping.

It doesn’t take much to make a dog happy.

Come to think of it, we should all take heed of that.

How is Sgt, Thomas Tibbs, you ask?

Stay tuned after today's blog post for a brief commercial message.

Thomas is doing just fine these days. It's hard to believe that I last posted about him in February. He has made amazing progress since then, most notably now wagging his tail for me (which took four months) and taking a treat from my hand (which took five). Of course, he's still the world's most quirky dog, but that's okay. I love him just as he is, and I don't mind making a few accommodations for him. Well, maybe more than a few. But still okay. Below is a brief update on his progress (and if you haven't read the previous posts about Thom, you might want to click here):

What I mean by quirky:

He's still nocturnal, and I'm not referring to sleeping patterns; he's happy and awake and alive if it's dark outside. As the light comes on, he becomes more and more wary and afraid and shut down. His ears literally begin to droop as dawn turns into day. Thus, I find myself running around the back yard at 4:30 in the morning doing dog bows with him as he huffs and jumps happily, using a stage whisper (so as not to wake the neighbors or their barky dog) to tell him, "Good boy! Good job!" if he runs to retrieve his chew bone. While he will now wag his tail at 4:30 in the afternoon when I feed him (yes! progress!), he will not play at that hour. At least, not until the sun goes down.

Anything out of place makes him anxious. He is learning to come in the house by himself (without being led in on the leash), which, again, is great progress. But if he sees anything out of place—a pillow on the floor, a chair moved to a different spot—he will turn around at the door and trot back to the safety of the side yard, at which point I have to go get him and guide him in to show him nothing will hurt him.

He will sit calmly in the family room while I vacuum the house, will stand in the doorway of the garage while I start the truck, slowly wagging his tail to ask if he can go. Neither the dishwasher nor the garbage disposal scares him. But if he hears a motorcycle start up—even if it's blocks away—he bolts for the side yard in terror. If he sees a motorcycle parked at the curb while we are out walking, he has to be coaxed around it.

His favorite spot to sleep is now the extra cab of my Ford Ranger. When I first began taking him places in the truck, he would become anxious and often get car sick. But he has slowly learned to love sitting in that protected back area between the seats and the wall of the cab, his face turned toward the wind blowing in from the open passenger side window. The loud explosions around the Fourth of July (which are still being heard in my neighborhood) were terrifying for him. One night recently when we came home from a long, leisurely walk in Mt. Baldy, a very loud boom resounded just as he was getting out of the truck in the garage (which is also something he does by himself now). He turned around and dove back in and didn't come out for over an hour. No problem. He's still sleeping part of the night indoors and part outside, so I leave the doors of the truck open in case he wants to duck for cover.

He steals things. Specifically, my gardening gloves. The first time he did this, I didn't realize what had happened (Now where did I leave those gloves...?) until the next day when I found a pile of dog vomit in the back yard and, as I cleaned it up, found both gloves. He had taken them off the patio table, ingested them, then (thank heavens) regurgitated them. Now, there were several other items on that table: His leash. His brush. His Nyla bone still smelling of peanut butter. His Kong toy that is hollow inside so that I can put treats in it (which he loves to play with to extract the treats, even though he still doesn't know how to play with toys). But he ignored all those goodies and took my gloves. So I have been very, very careful since then to always leave my gloves up on the workbench in the garage where he can't reach them. Until today. Today while we were working in the back yard—me heartily pulling weeds, Thom contentedly curled in a corner—the phone rang. I ran to get it, pulling off my gloves and setting them, yes, on that same table with his Kong toy, etc. while I went to answer it. Ten minutes later I returned to find one glove missing. Thomas was still in his corner. I looked everywhere in the yard for the glove, thinking I might have dropped it. I even made him get up to see if he had taken it to chew on and then curled back up on it. It was nowhere to be found. In the hour it took me to mow the lawn, I considered my options: I could wait for him to puke it up. I could make him throw up. I could call my vet to get his opinion. I was still mulling these things over as I went to check on Thom, and as I stood talking to him, I kicked some loose dirt with the toe of my shoe. A finger emerged. Well, not an actual finger, but the index finger of the glove. When he'd seen me set the gloves down, he'd gotten up, trotted over, taken one and trotted back to his corner to hide it for later. Son of a gun. There are just certain things—my gloves, BunnyTibbs—that he feels are rightfully his, and he will reclaim them if he gets the chance.

He still refuses to come when I call him. (I say "refuses" because I'm pretty sure he knows what I want, he just doesn't see any good reason to comply.) But he has gotten better and better on the leash. When we first began walking together, he would bolt through doorways or gateways and around corners or up onto curbs. We worked on it constantly, and I finally began teaching him the command, "Walk slow, Thom." Doing so was serendipitous. Just as he began to become proficient in responding to it, I tore a tendon in my ankle. At first I was devastated because I assumed we'd be unable to take walks for a while. But a day later we were limping around the culdesac, Thom on "walk slow" and me hobbling beside him at a snail's pace. Yes, it probably took much longer for the tendon to heal, but I just wasn't willing to give up our daily walk. Now when I tell him "Walk slow," he immediately slows his usual trotting pace to that of an old arthritic woman, which is basically what I am these days. I use this command to take care of my ankle when we are ascending or descending steep trails. He will continue the slow stroll until I tell him, "Ok, thank you, Thom," at which point he resumes his standard trot.

He still has a long way to go in terms of recovery. I know there are memories that still haunt him. Sometimes in his sleep, he barks or emits a low, ominous growl. But he has never uttered a sound while awake—even when all the dogs in the neighborhood are barking, even if that pesky little black cat is taking a swipe at him again. If people pass us while we're walking, he still cowers and tries to move to the side, tucking his tail so far between his legs it touches his belly. When friends stop by, he runs outside, remaining in his safe corner until he's certain there are no strangers present. But he has slowly warmed to my son and my friend Doug, so I see a time in the future when he will begin to trust other humans more readily.

My favorite time of day with him is early in the morning, just after he's had his breakfast, when it is still dark and he is feeling as happy and goofy as a much-loved dog can feel, trotting around the yard with his tail and head held high. My second favorite time is in the afternoon when he lies sprawled beside my desk as I write (as he is right now, matter of fact), softly sighing in his sleep. Just his presence here makes my life better.

And now for that brief commercial message: If you have enjoyed reading about Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, you might also enjoy the memoir I wrote entitled The Dogs Who Saved Me. All of the royalties for that book are donated to animal rescue groups who do the hard work of rehabilitating dogs like Thom. There is a link to the Amazon page for that book right here in the column on the left. And thank you!

The Mysterious Disappearance of Bunny Tibbs

Bunny Tibbs--the clean version

When Sgt. Thomas Tibbs came home to be my forever buddy, he was a sorry mess.  He'd had surgery that same day, he was still a bit drugged up, and he was coming into a strange new place.  These circumstances would stress any dog, but since Thom was so shut down already, I knew he might really have a tough time feeling safe. So on his first night home, I gifted him with Bunny, a soft brown Easter bunny my son had given me some years ago.  That night, I showed Thomas his bed, patting it gently as I led him to it, and I introduced him to Bunny.

"Bunny will stay with you, Thomas," I told him, and I laid Bunny on his bed as well.

I should mention here that for these first weeks, Thomas has been sleeping in my warm, well-insulated garage, with access to the back yard.  He is in the house more and more now, and eventually he will be sleeping inside, but we are still working through a few issues, one of which is his inclination to come alive at night.  During the day, he is still very shut down, but when darkness falls he becomes much more animated, investigating his yard and sometimes getting into a bit of mischief.  I attribute this to his extended stay at the shelter; to him, his environment was only quiet and therefore only felt safe at night.

For the first few days, while he was still recovering from surgery, I would wake Thom early in the morning, feed him and spend some time with him before heading off to work.  After a week or so, I came out one morning to find he was up and about, and he'd been exploring the yard.  A few days later, he spent the night chewing up an old dog bed, and I awoke to find bits of white stuffing spread all over the back yard.  No worries; it was the old bed, not the brand new one I'd just bought for him.  A few days later I awoke to a huge mess on the back patio; Thom had grabbed two bags of bird seed that had been sitting out there and dragged them across the yard, spilling seed everywhere.  I cleaned up what I could, but for days afterward my sparrows, finches and doves had a smorgasbord upon which to feast.

I'd been buying various Nyla bones and rawhide chews for Thom all along, as I knew he was anxious and needed an outlet, and due to his surgery, we wouldn't be going on any long walks right away. But he had seemed more interested in chewing other things such as his brand new brush.

Then he started excavating.  Every night he would dig one new hole in the yard.  Again, I recognize this behavior as one that emerges from his anxiety, and I know over time that anxiety will diminish, so it doesn't really bother me.  By the time I have the garden planted in late spring, he'll be staying in the house at night, so for now, he can turn over all the soil he wants.

Through all of his chewing and somewhat destructive behavior, he had never touched Bunny, and I sometimes wondered why, given what he was finding to chew on in the yard and the fact that he'd reduced a large dog bed to piles of fluff.

Then one morning I woke to find Bunny lying in the middle of the backyard.  I picked her up, turning her over and over, but could not find a tear or mark on her.  Huh, I thought, carrying her in and dropping her on Thom's bed.

That afternoon when I returned home from work, Bunny was missing.  I searched the yard, walking every inch of the perimeter.  She was nowhere to be found.  Thomas, of course, did not reply when I asked him repeatedly where she'd gone.  Finally, after my third thorough search of the yard, I noticed that the soil in one of the compost boxes looked uneven.  I ran a hoe through the rich earth--and a soggy ear flopped into the light.  I pulled it--and unearthed a very filthy Bunny.  I laughed as I carried her to the garage and threw her into the washing machine.  That night as I tucked Thomas in bed, I handed him his warm, soft Bunny right out of the dryer.

Of course she was missing when I woke up in the morning.  This time, she was nowhere to be found.

I called my son (whose favorite programs are true crime documentaries) and my best friend Donna, whose advice in helping Thomas recover has been invaluable.  Both were suspicious of Lady Boxer, the dog who lives behind us and sometimes jumps over the fence to "visit" (as in, eating Thom's food and drinking his water when her idiot owners leave her all alone for a weekend).  I wasn't so sure, but after a week went by with no sign of Bunny, I drove around the block and knocked on the door.  I was prepared to appear foolish ("Um, would you mind checking your back yard for my dog's stuffed rabbit?") in order to retrieve Thom's toy.  Yes, I love him that much.  Fortunately, they weren't home.

The next morning, there was Bunny, lying on the lawn as if she'd never left, covered with dirt but still wholly intact, not a scratch on her.

Of course, I stupidly, foolishly, picked her up and threw her in the washing machine again.  And of course, she immediately went missing the next day.

Poor Thomas.  He's having a tough time teaching his human to leave his toys alone.

I may not be as quick to learn as Thom, but I do eventually figure things out. He buries Bunny during the day so she will be safe from clean-freak humans, obnoxious cats who think they own the yard and pushy Boxer bi-- er, females who come over uninvited.  At night, when he's anxious, he digs Bunny up and chews on her--nicely.  There is a freshly dug hole in the yard, I'm sure, for every rawhide chew I've given him, as I quickly stopped seeing any evidence that he ever chewed them.

OK, Thom-boy, I get it now.  I promise I will never take your Bunny again.