River's Never Ending Quest for Freedomg

Dogs are not meant to be caged.  We are meant to roam freely throughout the land hunting varmint and splashing through streams like they do on those overly produced dog food television commercials.

When my parents leave our home, they insist on caging me.  My several successful escapes should have educated them to the fact that no cage can hold me.  In the face of mounting evidence of their futility, they continue to try.

They placed my crate in a corner of the bedroom, surrounded by two walls, with a bureau on the third side and a heavy seat with a soft cushion place on top of the cage barring escape from the top.

Then they got truly devious. They put Pocket’s crate in front of mine.  Then they connect my crate to Pocket’s via a bungee cord. The pressure from the cord pushed Pocket’s crate against mine, and it could not be moved.

A tip of the tail to my parents.  Very clever.  There was one thing I wanted:  Freedom.  But there was one thing I feared:  Being locked in a crate with Pocket.  But if I were to gain freedom I would have to break out of my crate and into Pocket’s. It was diabolical.

I was determined to prove to my parents that no matter what obstacles they fixed before me they could not impede my freedom.

The first day in the back crate attached to Pocket’s crate I didn’t make a move.  It was a reconnaissance crating.

The next time they put me in my crate I commenced my plan.  I grabbed Pocket’s blanket and pulled it into my crate.  I did this during consecutive lockups before I realized that not only wasn’t I getting her blanket in my crate but even if I did it would not gain my precious freedom.

Saturday mommy did not put the bungee cord on the top of Pocket’s crate.  She put it on the side.  I saw an opportunity.  I began to bang my thick head against the crate door.  Pocket’s crate slowly moved.  Pocket, the snitch, was barking at me to stop but I wouldn’t.  For hours, I banged my head moving her further away from me.  I pushed her four inches from my crate.  Then I attempted to get my door open when my parents returned.  I laid down like nothing had happened.

But my parents had an idea something had happened since Pocket’s crate was a few inches away from mine and Pocket was trembling.  She didn’t stop shaking, and she didn’t eat for hours.  I am sorry Pocket, but I am not the one who put you between me and freedom.

I don’t know if the screws (also known as my parents) have no plans to keep me caged, but I am telling them now, you can lock my crate but you can never take my FREEDOM!