It’s a week before Christmas, and I’ve turned the blog over to Baxter. In the meantime, I’m still working on the house behind the scenes and will have lots more DIY for you in the new year.

As a southern gentleman, I pride myself on being quiet and calm. However, every afternoon, I am overcome by my inner party animal. I blame the Boxer side of my personality.

Matt walks in the door, and I just have to pick up my kong and play it like a trumpet.

It shows Matt how happy I am that he’s home and how wonderful he is and how much I love him. But it’s not at all dignified.

As I come back into myself, sometimes I end up in a no-dog’s-land where I’m not sure who I am or what I’m doing. It’s a very confusing place. I end up sitting there with the kong and no idea how to get rid of it.

Seriously y’all, it’s hard to be a distinguished gentleman when I’m sitting there with a rubber cone hanging out of my mouth.

Any advice for helping me to control my excitement? Or any suggestions of tunes I should learn to play? What song do you think Matt would really appreciate?

Given that it’s the week before Christmas, I’ve decided to take it easy and have turned the blog over to Baxter. In the meantime, I’m working on the house behind the scenes and will have lots more DIY for you in the new year.

Matt and Julia make fun of me a lot for how much I love my bed. I don’t see why. They have “the most comfortable couch in the world.” I have the most comfortable bed in the world. But they won’t even call it a bed. All the time, they call it my “boat.”

I guess technically, with the ring around the outside it kinda looks like a dingy. Boat, bed — who cares? What’s most important is the boat is very cozy, and I can do all kinds of snuggles.

I can lounge on the deck with my sleeping bag.

If I feel like there’s bad weather coming, I can hunker down in the hull–of course with a paw out in case I need to paddle.

Sometimes I like to pretend it’s wavy and roll around (although it’s always embarrassing when they catch me kicking off my covers).

Since the boat docked at the farm, I haven’t even sat in Matt’s chair. Now, I just sail around the house, floating and dozing.

It’s a captain’s life for me.

For those that have been following along, the obvious question after last week’s post about Baxter’s baking attempt is why was the dog in the house instead of the dog run? Wasn’t your plan to let him stay outside when you’re not home?

Well, that was the plan, but you may have heard the saying about the best laid plans…

The dog run was not a hit.

We started slowly in the summer, trying to have Baxter spend just a few minutes in the run.

The first time he didn’t even make it a minute. It turned out the gap between the gate and the fence was big enough, and our dog is strong enough that he could push his way out.

I adjusted the hinge, tightened up the screws and closed the gap.

It didn’t work. Bax braced his shoulders and still pushed his way out.

Plan B was a second latch at the bottom of the gate. The result of that was a tunnel.

Look at the happy dog, free at last.

Plan C was a mesh base that Matt and his Dad wired to the fencing along the perimeter of the run.

I buried the mesh in dirt and then covered it all with a layer of wood chips. The result of that was more excavation and another demonstration of Baxter’s strength–this time in his teeth. Look at how he tore the mesh.

Moving on now to plan D. I added patio slabs over the mesh in front of the gate where Baxter most liked to dig.

This worked for a little while and we managed to make it up to about 3 hours in the run at a time.

But as we headed into the fall, neither of Matt nor I was really comfortable leaving Baxter alone in the run all day when we weren’t there. He loves being outside, sniffing all of the smells and watching all of the birds and animals, but he hated the run. We weren’t confident that he’d still be in there when we came home at the end of the day, and, most importantly, we didn’t want to stress him out all day.

We tried leaving him alone in the house, and he seemed to do okay, so we decided to go with that plan.

We did revisit the run on the Day of the Skunk. I’d given him a bath and kept him on his long leash outside all morning, but I had to come up with a better solution when I couldn’t put off going in to work any longer. I chose the run. I took the long leash and snapped it onto the fence just in case, gave him his kong full of kibble and a big dish of water, latched the gate and drove away.

I came home to definitive evidence that the run was a big fat #fail. The mesh was completely torn, the fencing was bent, the rocks that I’d used to fill previous holes were exposed and a new tunnel was dug.

Because of the long leash, the dog was still in the run, but we decided it was for the last time.

Now, Baxter is completely an indoor dog. He spends most of his time snuggled in his bed.

Although he does occasionally take advantage of being home alone to bend the rules.

What do you mean dogs aren’t allowed on the furniture? Matt gets the couch. You have your chair. This one’s mine.

We haven’t tried a crate, and our fingers are crossed that Baxter continues to do okay on his own in the house. If his baking urges return, we do have a separate mudroom where he could spend the day.

Does anyone else have an escape artist dog?

I lost the dog.

So an alternate title for this post could be Matt’s and Julia’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

We’d had an amazing week last week. He’d been to lots of new places, had lots of new experiences and been a shining star in all of them. The Canine Good Citizenship test was seeming much more attainable than I originally thought.

Saturday, he’d walked off leash with us, back over the fields out to the woods. I snapped the leash onto him when we headed into the forest, but once we were done with our hike, I let him walk freely back to the house. He trotted around and sniffed, but followed us home with no problem.

Buoyed by his stellar behaviour, on Sunday morning I grabbed the leash but decided not to put it on him for our morning walk. He waited at the front door until he had permission to come out. He took two steps down the driveway but turned around and followed me when I headed in the opposite direction. He ran past me and part way down the lane to the back field, but changed direction when I called him and he saw that I was going across the other field. He ran into the field, but quickly settled into his usual trot, looking back over his shoulder every so often to see that I was still there.

As we neared the end of the field, I called, “Baxter, wait.” And he stood still like he usually does and waited until I caught up to him. I said, “Good boy!” and he headed off trotting again. At the corner, we came to a junction where three fields meet. He waited for me to find out what field we were going to, and then he trotted off on his tour of the perimeter.

I was ecstatic. He was the best behaved dog ever. This was exactly what I envisioned when I thought about getting a dog. I was so happy that he was able to range freely and sniff as he wanted.

At the bottom of the field, there’s a marshy spot and the perimeter does a bit of a jig-and-jog. Baxter, who was trotting ahead, disappeared around the corner, hidden by the tall grass. I had a moment of, “I wonder what my dog is doing. I hope he doesn’t find a trail to follow and take off when I can’t see him.”

I came around the corner, and he was standing there, looking over his shoulder waiting for me to catch up.

We continued on, making our way around the second and third sides of the field. There were lots of areas where I could see that a deer or a turkey or some other animal had walked through the long grass between the fields. Baxter sniffed most of these trails but kept up his patrol, sticking to the mowed area inside the field.

Then, at the last corner, he didn’t. I had made the turn and was walking along. He stopped to sniff. Our routine had been that I’d keep walking, he’d sniff his fill and then come trotting along passed me. This time, he followed his nose into the long grass, trailing whatever delicious scent had captured his attention.

I called him, but as soon as I realized he wasn’t going to come, I headed after him. He was in my sight… and then he wasn’t. There was a fence. I had a minute to puzzle over how he’d got through, but I couldn’t find a gap, so I quickly climbed it (tall wire fence + short woman wearing shorts = not a good combination).

On the other side of the fence, I plunged into the woods behind our closest neighbour’s house and found nothing.

No sight of a sleek red-brown dog. No jingle of his tags. No paw prints in the mud. It had been maybe 10 seconds, and he had disappeared.

I circled through the woods calling his name in my happiest voice. I headed up to the neighbour’s house thinking he might have returned to civilization. Nothing. I headed back through the woods and discovered an open field where a turkey was having his breakfast. Given how placidly he was munching until I barged in, I concluded Baxter hadn’t come that way.

I thought I must have misread Baxter’s direction and maybe he headed north instead of east or south. I cut back over to our front field. No sign. The dogs across the road were barking. Maybe he ended up over there. No. Just people looking at a calf and dogs ticked off that they weren’t getting the same attention.

I went home, trying to figure out what I’d say to Matt.

“I don’t have him. He went into the woods. I couldn’t find him. I don’t know where he is.”

“Are you joking?”

“No, I mean it.”

With speed rivaling any fireman, Matt pulled on his boots, grabbed a leash and headed out.

I changed into long pants and grabbed my car keys. My plan was to drive down the road and if I didn’t see Baxter hike into the woods and work my way back to Matt. We did that, and when we met up we were both still dogless.

Matt came up with a new plan. I would head back to the house in case Baxter came back on his own. Matt would keep looking.

I drove home, scanning the trees alongside the road for any sign of Baxter. Back at the farm, I headed out across the fields again, retracing our steps from the morning and calling his name. I found the end of the fence line where he must have gotten through, heard a few barks that I thought might be him (although he’s a very quiet dog, so they were likely just wishful thinking on my part) and that was it.

I headed home, hoping that a furry fellow would be curled up on the front stoop as he likes to do. No such luck.

Deciding that it was best to stay outside, I went to work pulling weeds on the turnaround. I kept calling his name and scanning the fields, hoping that I’d see him happily trotting along. Ralph came out to offer her comfort. She doesn’t like Baxter, but she still likes me, so she saved her happy dance for the privacy of the barn and gave me cuddles and purrs.

I pulled weeds and kept repeating my mantra, “Matt will find him. Matt will find him.” I envisioned Matt and Baxter walking together, Baxter safely on a leash. I castigated myself for my arrogance in walking him off leash when I know he’s lazy about coming when I call him. I envisioned telling my family, friends, coworkers and you guys that he was gone. I wrote mental blog posts. I pulled weeds.

After two and a half hours, I looked down the driveway and saw Matt and Baxter, walking along just as I had envisioned them (reenactment below).

I ran down the driveway, threw myself into Matt’s arm (the other one was busy holding the leash) and burst into tears.

My husband is the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. Many times, this annoys me. However, when you need someone to walk around for hours and hours searching for your lost dog and not give up until he finds him, Matt’s stubbornness is his best quality.

If this story had gone a different way, this post would have been a picture of an empty collar that we bought over the weekend for Baxter’s birthday. I was going through the adoption paperwork the other week, and I found a note that Baxter’s birth date is September 5. We decided that we really should replace his dirty and faded foster collar with something that could measure up to his own handsomeness. We hadn’t put it on him when he headed out on Sunday, and while I was searching one of my thoughts was, “If somebody finds him, I hope that awful collar doesn’t make them think he’s not cared for and loved.”

Happily, this post can still be a birthday post… albeit in a very roundabout way. Here is Baxter, safe at home and handsome in his new collar.

Happy birthday, fellow. The second part of your birthday present is a flexi-leash to be used only on field walks. The third part will definitely be those training classes I was planning on.