Bitch, Please: The Life Of Mae, A Boykin From Mobile (Installment IX)

It is a good thing I can wear orange as I am incarcerated at times. Yes, I am a jailbird. Like Dreyfus, I am always falsely accused. This column is entitled “Bitch, Please,” but my human is the real bitch in this scenario.

When a lady is mad, there is usually a man behind it and causing it. He can really rattle my chain. While my human is not the cause of my being in jail, he is the jailor!

By jail I mean my crate. That doggy Alcatraz of a holding cell is in the laundry room. It is one space within our homey Bungalow that I do not like.

Tucked away, all out of the action, that cage is the bane of my existence. I loathe it with a passion.

Crates in concept and in plural trouble me. The root cause of this strong dislike bordering on hatred is something my human thinks about a great deal. When the tubs first encountered me, I was crate-trained. My foster family crated me with their other dogs.

When I entered into my human’s life, my first crate (yes, there have been several) was in no way a negative space. I slept in my crate. Being a bit of a kleptomaniac as puppy, I used crate one as a safety deposit for my treasures. Wine corks, boxer shorts (the human believes things should be suspended as nature intended), key fobs, and leather loafers were all stashed in my crate. (On a side note, you might realize these appropriated possessions were things associated with the human.

The wine corks served as more than reminders of him. Not simply associative, they helped me put up with the human as I would nibble away the end of the cork that engaged the wine.)

When it comes down to it, I have major separation anxiety. I am not good at being alone. Playing up the country in a field, creek, or forest is all fine. I know where my people are occupying themselves in my absence.

From time to time, I return to them to make sure they are okay. Additionally, this lady is not one who likes to miss out on anything. As much as I hate it, the human is my main focus. The spare’s stock is rising quickly, though. That one is easier to manipulate.

I do not like it when they leave me, even for the short term. I try to escape and destroy things.

When my people travel, I am sent to be with my grandmother up the country or with my much-loved cousin here in town. Alternative returns and constant presence, not to mention all manner of treats, make the absence of the human and the spare bearable.

No crates are involved in these pleasurable exiles. Bribes and attention soften my anxiety. The first sight of my resident housekeeping staff upon their return is cause for rejoicing. I go bonkers. Running around them—and my tail—in circles. I tackle the human, licking the living daylights out of him. I do not leave his side for hours.

The short-term absences bring about incarcerations in the crate. When my human and I first moved into the Bungalow, my first crate accompanied us. The tubs decided to give me parole. For almost two years, I was not crated. My charming self was a little angel. Minus sitting and napping on all soft surfaces, I caused no damage to property or to myself in the distress of being left alone.

About a year ago, I regressed.

For no apparent reason whatsoever, I started eating the front door of the Bungalow. The front door is a French door. It is an original feature of our hundred-year-old house. Authenticity matters little in my fear of being left and left alone. I ate huge chunks out of the muntins, the wooden dividers separating the glass panes of the door.

My human was mortified. I was ingesting the wood. Some muntins I nibbled down to the pane!

After several assaults on the front door, my human started crating me again. The process—and it is a process—is painful for both of us. I know when it is happening. I am a creature of habit who has an owner who is similarly wired, and I know the structure and rhythms of our days.

When the human goes for a run or to the office, I am placed in my crate. We are now on crate number two. The old crate was discarded when we moved from our old house to the Bungalow. The human placed it in the back of our ride as I was constantly destroying the canvas crates he placed in our vehicle. When I started going all beaver on the front door of the bungalow, the new crate was moved from the car into the laundry room. I started to eat this second crate!

I was swallowing huge pieces of the hard plastic in my fear and anger-driven rage to escape. Escape I did. Like a Boykin version of Al Capone, I got out of there! My human was shocked and concerned. The up-country crate, a metal one, is now my cell. I am trying to destroy the plastic floor of this incarceration coup.

What can be done? The human does not trust leaving me alone now. He takes me with him sometimes, and friends keep me at others. I like this approach. The tubs tried prescriptions . . . for me, that is. He might have needed a prescription for himself! Pharmaceuticals did not work.

I kept nibbling on the crate despite being drugged. The spare’s presence has greatly helped. Having another member of the housekeeping staff is a good thing. In full self-admission, I am a handful in general, and in this specific. I need keepers. The spare is easy to con, too. Another person translates to less crating.

This felon keeps her people on their toes.

My theme song should be Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab.” I do say, “No, no, no.” Thank goodness, I am pretty. That reality gets me out of a lot of trouble. Even my looks and my big eyes do not get me out of crate time. I should keep in mind that it is done for my own good.

—CARTLEDGE WEEDEN BLACKWELL III