Seven Steps: Yet another Boscoe adventure

Update: Ooops! to the Derfwads who are all clicking over here from Mrs. G's place. I, um, forgot to do my assignment. Sorry! I am not worthy. Or maybe that makes me the Derfwadiest Derfwad of all. But don't go! If you like dogs, stick around. I have a dog story for you ...


So Thursday morning I had to put the dogs on the basement landing. We had people doing work in the house while we were gone, so the boys had to be confined.

OK, OK, full disclosure: We didn't exactly have "people doing work." We had house cleaners. The workers were house cleaners. We hired 'em. To clean our house. To vacuum up the dog hair and scrub the spaghetti sauce off the stove and, well, vacuum up some more dog hair. We do this from time to time. It embarrasses me. I cringe inside, hoping the neighbors don't notice. But we do it anyway, because we are always at work, long hours, all week long, and even though we spend many Saturday mornings cleaning we don't want to spend every single Saturday cleaning.

So we hired cleaners. And we had to put the boys on the basement landing. I put their beds there, and some toys, and they went down quite willingly. Boscoe, as you know, won't go any farther than the landing, but Riley will freely go all the way down and roam around the basement.

All day at work, I had a bad feeling. I had a feeling that Boscoe was in trouble. I worried that he had fallen down the basement stairs, or was too hot on that close little landing (it was very warm in the afternoon).

I got home about 6:30, and even as I was unlocking the garage door, I knew something was up because I could hear Riley barking.

Now, Riley is not a barker. He barks briefly at dogs passing by, but only if Boscoe barks first, and he gives a polite little WOOF! when he wants us to let him back in the house, but he is not a sustained barker. But he was barking now.

This worried me.

I went around to the side door and peered in the window to the basement landing. One dog. A barking dog. Riley. No sign of Boscoe. Not good.

I unlocked the door and Riley flew out, jumped in my arms, raced around the yard, and then raced back inside, barking the whole time.

No sign of Boscoe.

I was very worried by now.

I went down the basement. There stood Boscoe. The air was ripe with farts--clearly, he was nervous--but he seemed otherwise fine. Except for one thing: He couldn't get back up the stairs.

You all already know about his pathological fear of the basement stairs; how they used to be nearly as narrow and steep as a ladder, and how as his back legs deteriorated he could no longer make the mad dash back up them. How we hired Jerry to rebuild the stairs wider and flatter, and how Boscoe has steadfastly refused to even consider giving them a try.

Now was our chance.

Except that he was so worried about being stuck in the basement he was shaking, and whimpering. A pathetic little high-pitched squeak. His furry body was vibrating like mad. (Most of you also know about his equally pathological fear of being picked up.)

Don't worry, Buddy, I soothed. I'm not going to pick you up. I went about my business, bringing his dog bed back upstairs, emptying the dehumdifier. He was not soothed. He squeaked and shook.

I went up to the landing and opened the side door wide. Maybe he'd see the sunshine and feel the fresh air and realize he didn't have all that far to go--just seven steps. Seven wide, flat, Jerry-made steps.

I called to him. In the background, you could hear Riley, still barking, out in the yard.

MYBROTHER'SINTROUBLE,
MYBROTHER'SINTROUBLE,
MYBROTHER'SINTROUBLE!

He wanted to come up. He tried to come up. He put his front paws on the first step and stared at me helplessly. He put his front paws on the second stair and whimpered. He wanted to come up those stairs, but he just didn't think he could.

Riley, in the backyard, continued to bark.

So I went back down the basement, got behind Boscoe, and put my hands on his back hips. Man, they're scrawny. Almost no muscle left at all.

I lifted up his back legs, and that was enough; he scrambled up the seven steps, squirted out the side door, dashed into the back yard--and Riley's barking, thank God, finally stopped.

They both seem fine now, except they want their dinner. I do wonder why Boscoe went down the basement in the first place, and I also wonder how long Riley had been barking. But I just have to keep wondering, because they're not saying a word.

When Doug came home we poured a couple of Lake Superior Kayak beers and sat on the back porch and I told him the story. And he said, Those cleaners are toast, aren't they? and I said, Yep.

A note on the photos: The boys on the basement landing during a recent storm. I didn't have the presence of mind to photograph them today. Too noisy. Too stressful.