Naughty Dog

Our dog is ancient. If there were a Senior Citizen Center for dogs, Rupert would be there. When he is with other dogs, I'm sure he says in a crotchety-old-man-voice "You kids these days....back in my day, when we ran away, we had to come back home through the snow. Uphill. Both ways."

My wife credits his long life with the fact that our family has provided him with so much love. I credit his long life with a too-stubborn-to-die attitude. And a hefty supply of table food the kids have snuck him over the years.


Rupert really is the perfect dog. He doesn't bark. He doesn't bite. He doesn't go to the bathroom in the house. And he doesn't jump on people (likely due to his morbid obesity). He's perfect. Except for one thing: Rupert likes to rumage through garbage.

This minor character flaw drives me CRAZY. At least a time or two each day, we walk into a bathroom to be greeted by a tipped over garbage can with trash all over. This is pretty gross. We have the (dis)pleasure of cleaning up Kleenex. And floss. And kid's gum. And fuzz after I clean out my electric razor. And Q-Tips. And apple cores. And bananna peels. And any other variety of things commonly found in a bathroom garbage can.


We thought we could solve the problem by buying the fancy garbage cans where you have to step on a little pedal to open the lid. But alas, cranky old Rupert still manages to tip over the garbage cans to see what he can find.

When my wife finds a garbage mess, her usual response is to yell "Ruuuuuuuuupert!" My usual response is to groan and mutter to myself that we could cut off his feet and make them into key chains.