So I've spent the last two weeks boarding a dog while Mark is out of town... and I gotta tell you, I'll take the waterboarding.
That sounds pretty dramatic, I know. There's been so much media attention on waterboarding as an interrogation technique in recent months. Is it an acceptable form of intimidation to be used in coercing confessions from terrorists? I don't know, but no coercion is needed to prompt this confession: Julie Mannon is a cat person all the way.
As I understand it, waterboarding , when done "properly", is supposed to be very controlled. The intent is not to inflict lasting physical damage on the receiver, but to systematically apply enough water to elicit the physiological effects of drowing. Most importantly, the receiver experiences the mental anguish of feeling that death is imminent, and therefore offers a confession to bring an end to the punishment. I can imagine there's a lot of gasping, choking and trying to control the gag-reflex... all of which, ironically, are my reaction to "dog smell". More on that later.
You see, I didn't mind fostering Lightning the bird-dog for a little while. In fact, I suggested it; having her at my place would be a lot easier than constantly running up to Rogers to care for her. So Mark bought her a swank, new doghouse (make that "dogpalace", complete with doggie-door) and placed it in the interior of my covered patio for further insulation from the elements. The only exposed side of her new digs would still be wind-proof and have the door to ensure coziness. Perfect! Not only would this temporary home provide more comfort than she normally has, it also offered me some comfort and assuaged my guilt when a severe cold-front blew in. That was before I knew she wasn't smart enough to figure out the mechanics of the doggie-door on her palace.
Now, I have a cat-door leading out to my garage... and even though it has been locked for the past year and a half, Sydney and Spencer still check it almost every day; they discovered it about 60 seconds after we moved into the house and are still fascinated by it, even though they've only used it a handful of times. I guess I'm just used to the natural curiosity of cats, so I never guessed that this dog wouldn't learn how to use the door on her house. Hello? The lights are on but no one's home in the dogpalace, if you know what I mean...
So it was about 24 hours into her stay that I realized Lightning thinks she's under house arrest in the dogpalace when the door is down. Nevermind that it's clear plastic with a top-to-bottom slit in the middle... she also has no clue that she can push through the door to get inside. My remedy was to secure the door to the open position so she can come and go as she pleases. So she lost a little warmth inside the house when she lost the door, but it's a good alternative to the house becoming totally obsolete. After a few days, we settled into a routine: at night, she's invited to come inside for treats before bedding down on her big fluffy cushion in my utility room. In the morning, she has a hot breakfast and goes back outside for the day. So far, so good.
Then on day #5, I found the card from Animal Control: "Call Officer Jones ASAP".
Like I said, the weather turned really cold here. We're talking teens and twenties some mornings when I leave for work. So already I had some guilt over leaving the poor dumb thing outside during the day. I even took to warming her blankie in the dryer before putting her out in the morning. But apparently, one of my neighbors felt sorry for her, too... sorry enough to call Animal Control. And the story sounded grave enough for them to dispatch an officer to my home to inspect the situation. "No food, water or shelter" was the report Officer Jones had received. Puh-lease. The dogpalace is nicer than my first apartment.
Just as I was justifying my dog-boarding skills to a sworn officer of the law, I realized, unequivocally, that I am a cat person. My whole opinion of the canine species shifted in that moment. I appreciate the laid back, mellow attitude of my feline companions. They're always excited to see me when I come home; and when I sit down in the evening, one if not both, will soon be perched on my lap. They love attention, but not in an overbearing sort of way... they rub against your ankles to let you know they're in the mood. They express their pleasure by purring as opposed to drooling. They have enough decorum to keep themselves clean, which makes the occasional hairball a pretty fair trade. I don't have to deal with cold weather, walks or obnoxious barking. And best of all, I can go away for the weekend without asking my neighhbors to look after them-- which is a really good thing, since I don't know which of my neighbors considers me an animal-neglecting monster these days.
And you know what I like best about cats? If one of them spends the night in an enclosed space, it doesn't smell like a 700-acre landfill when I open the door the next morning.
So I propose this: Let's give dog boarding a shot as a strategy for gaining intel from hardened terrorists. The way I see it, unlike the murky classification of waterboarding, dog boarding doesn't possess the necessary combination of physical and mental agony to meet the legal definition of "torture". But trust me, it'll do the trick. I'll even sweeten the pot and throw in the dogpalace, the treats, the cushion, the blankie, and a 20-lb bag of Beneful. A two-week stint with Lightning should do it... And in case our government needs to really up the ante, I'll throw in a pack of Bar S hotdogs. Who knew an 88-cent pack of weinies could be the tipping point in the war against terror?
