Reposted with the Margin corrected Ruby Rose Report: A Thanksgiving Break Out

Thanksgiving was going to be a nuisance. It always is and leaves us with little to be thankful for: We are either going to have a house full of people too busy to spend time with the dog, or we are left behind, when drink and joy will fall, without us.

The day before Thanksgiving something equally annoying happened. The fake tree was erected in the living room, taking away one of my five beds. How is a little dog going to be able to get by with only four beds? (Not counting the big bed.)

I don’t mind the tree, but I hate the fascist soldiers that protect it. And I wish it was in a corner and not by a window, My Great Nana didn’t like when her daughter and son-in-law put their tree, and when they went out, and she babysat, she tried to scooch the tree over and knocked it, fully decorated, on the floor. When her daughter returned home, Great Nana said the wind got in the house and it blew down, but now that it was on the floor, it gave them a chance to put the tree in the right place.

So I won’t be trying to move the tree even if I could get past the soldiers.

The parents spent a lot of money on the fake tree, probably more than a real tree, and anyone who has seen a rock video knows fake friends cost more than real ones.

I bring this up because months ago the pin that holds the crate door shut broke, but they decided not to get another one because they are cheap, and they said I am a good girl,  the gate could be held in place by a bungee cord, and I have never tried to get out, so what was the harm?

The thing with these temporary solutions is they work fine right up to the time they don’t. After a couple of hours, I got bored. I put my head against the door, and it opened a couple of inches. I pressed and it opened further, and soon I had broken out like Andy Dufrene without a poster of Raquel Welch or crawling through filth.

There was so much I could do. I could try to open cabinets and find food, or jump around on the furniture playing the floor is lava, or find something to chew which is forbidden, and go to town. But I chose to stand at the kitchen window and look out waiting for hours for my parents to come home. 

Give me a break, it was my first burst of freedom. Even Harriet Tubman got caught up looking out the window during her first escape.

And that is where my stunned parents found me when they got home Thanksgiving night, haunting the window waiting up for them. They decided since nothing was damaged and I didn’t seem upset and didn’t poop or pee anywhere untoward that they would stop creating me when they went out.

I think it is just a way to get out of buying another crate.