Later, we didn’t need to put her in her crate as she grew out of chewing anything she could get her mouth on, so we could just corral her in my office with a baby gate.
I used to crate my Keeshond, Molly Malone, while I was at work, for her own safety in her youth. She was an inveterate chewer and unrepentant raider of the trash can when I wasn’t home, and in those days I lived alone so if she got into something that she shouldn’t have, there would be no one there to do anything until I got out of class hours later. She learned rapidly that my cheerfully calling out, “Time for school!” meant a jumbo Milk-Bone smeared with peanut butter in her immediate future. She would come running into the kitchen and get into her big dog crate under the dining table, waiting for her morning snack. She curled up and slept on her blankie until I got home in the afternoon and let her out of the crate and took her out for playtime and walkies.
Oh, okay, that’s good to know. I was postulating that they had lost their fancy prize winning show cat, and stole Sophie because she looks enough like their original cat to pass for.
They’re very small aerial dinosaurs … and in their tiny little brains live primordial memories of when they ruled the whole world. Don’t underestimate the Feathered Ones.
Later, we didn’t need to put her in her crate as she grew out of chewing anything she could get her mouth on, so we could just corral her in my office with a baby gate.