Well, Poppy has gotten out of the yard. Again. After El Jeffe and I spent twelve hundred bucks and hours of hard work erecting a six-foot fence, then dog-proofing it, or so we thought, by burying rebar 3 inches apart to a depth of about 2 feet along the entire fence line, she just appeared in the street outside my window. She's been out for around 10 hours now, and shows no sign of returning. Not that she's gone far, mind. I can hear her barking playfully outside as I write this. She sees it as a game, and won't come in until she's bored, or tired, or hungry, or wet.
We're still unsure exactly how she's getting out, so this time I've been pumping Tater for information. So far the little stoolie has been very unhelpful, but we have made some progress:
They dug three tunnels, Tom, Dick and Harry;
Tom went from under the kitchen window into the next door's yard under the East wall;
Dick went North from beside the garage side entrance;
Harry went the deepest, and ran from beneath the deck, straight under the fence to the South and 200 yards into the trees beyond;
The dirt was hidden by eating it, then pooing it out onto the excercise yard;
When it looked like the plot would be discovered, they stopped Dick & Tom and concentrated solely on Harry, barking at night to cover up the sound of the digging.
That's it for now. I'm planning to put Tater in the cooler for a week to see if that softens him up. Although I doubt he's been making fake Luftwaffe uniforms by sewing old kibble sacks together - he hasn't got any thumbs to hold the needle. I just hope I don't look out of my window to see Poppy trying to clear next door's garden fence on a stolen motorcycle.
Thought for the day - you can't polish a turd. Night, all.
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