Organizers R Us

Summer, 2003

Why expose yourself to the elements when you can train your dog to run out the front door to retrieve your morning newspaper? I was halfway home from not having to run out in the rain anymore as I already had a 100 pound chocolate Labrador retriever. All I had to do is train him to fetch the paper. This should be a snap! 

The first morning of training, I held onto his collar, told him “fetch,” and walked him right outside to the paper, about 30 feet from the front door. (We had asked that it be delivered to the porch but in seven years, it hasn’t made it there once.) I picked up the paper, stuffed it in his mouth, said, “good dog!” and took him back into the house, where he was given a biscuit as a treat. He was starting to get interested. 

The next morning, I repeated the process and did the same again on the third day. By now he was showing great interest, especially in the biscuit part. Even though a veterinarian had told me chocolate Labs were the “blonds of the dog world,” I was optimistic that this could work. 

Come Day Four, I opened the door and said “fetch.” He bolted out the front door, all on his own, and headed in the opposite direction where he proceeded to poop on my front lawn. I fetched the paper myself and cleaned up the poop. This was not part of the plan. 

On Day Five, I let him out in the run for his morning constitution before I had him fetch the paper. While still in my PJs, I confidently took him to the front door, said the magic word and let him loose. He ran directly to the paper, picked it up and ran back between the houses into the unfenced backyard. I ran back through the house, to the side door by the run and into the back yard yelling “biscuit! biscuit!” He dropped the paper in the middle of the back yard and came running for his treat. There was no reward for this kind of behavior. I retrieved the paper myself from the middle of my back yard. I should have ate the biscuit.

The next day, I decided to tie a 30′ rope to his collar so that he could not escape again. He had previously chewed the rope in two, so a knot was in place to keep it the full length. I again let him go in the run first to avoid the pooping problem. I had him tied up and everything was in place for a successful retrieve. As it was early morning, I had my favorite old chenille robe on, my hair was doing the Phyllis Dillar thing, and I called my seven year old son down to watch what was surely going to be a proud moment. I opened the door, yelled ‘fetch’ and off he ran, causing the rope to burn through my hands so fast and painfully that I had to drop the rope, which landed on my right ankle, which immediately burned. Before I could jump aside, that darn knot caught under the front door slamming it shut, smacking my backside and propelling me in all my morning beauty out on the front porch in the middle of the neighborhood. The dog is now about four inches from the paper, lunging and stretching to reach but cannot go any further because of the knot under the door. I can’t push the door open to get back in the house with all this leaping and jumping toward the paper going on. I finally grabbed the rope and pulled him in, without the paper, and stumbled back into my foyer, where my son was still sitting on the steps. We looked at each other and he said, “Wow! That had to hurt!” 

It did. 

The next day, I can hardly believe I tried it again with nothing but hope and a biscuit. Somehow that crazy dog grabbed that paper and ran right back to me. It was a resounding hard fought success and he’s actually been doing it ever since. Sometimes I don’t even have to give him a biscuit! However, occasionally I have to wrestle the newspaper out of his mouth and pick up all the ripped off pieces of newspaper. But that’s another story.

September 2008

We were invited to a wedding reception – we, as in my husband, John, and I, but not our 12 year old son, Patrick. Since the wedding was close to home, we thought this could be the first opportunity for Patrick to be “home alone.” We wrote out our cell numbers and left them on the kitchen table with the house phone. We thoroughly explained where we were going and how soon we would be home. He reassured us over and over that everything was going to be fine, and just go already! The weather was clear so John didn’t have to give Patrick the tornado speech again that scared the heck out of him some months ago, which is why we were still attempting that first stay-at-home-alone adventure. We drove away, not entirely sure we were doing the right thing, but willing to give it a try.

We started to relax once we were at the reception, sitting at the family table enjoying a drink and catching up with each other. Most weddings in this family included children, but every once in a while, they were not invited which gave us an unexpected and rare adult night out. This time, though, we wouldn’t have to pay $5 an hour for a babysitter to watch Patrick and our 100 pound chocolate Labrador. It was always a gamble as to which one was going to be more work any given evening.

We had about 10-15 minutes before the buffet dinner was ready, when John heard my phone ringing. As I answered it, I saw our home number in the digital read out and instantly became concerned.

“Hello, Patrick – is everything OK?”

“Yes, mema. I just have a question.”

“OK. What is it?”

“What’s our full address?”

This threw me a bit because I know he knows where he lives, and if necessary, he could have just looked at the front of the house, but I gave him the full address and zip code. He thanked me and hung up.

While trying to get back in the family conversation, I occasionally drifted off to wonder what he needed the full address for, but with family and friends all around, the music picking up in the background and the festive occasion to celebrate, I quickly put it to the back of my mind.

About three minutes later, my phone rang again. Once again it was my home number calling.

“Patrick, what’s up?”

“Mema, what’s your credit card number?”

“WHAT?!? Whatever you are doing on the computer, stop it RIGHT NOW!!!! Turn it off and go watch TV!”

“But, I want—“

“NO! You are not buying anything over the computer while we’re not home! That’s final.”

We quickly ate and headed home. We didn’t leave him home alone for another year.

January 5, 2010

I just spent $285 on driving lessons for Patrick. Not bike lessons. Not roller blade lessons. Automobile driving lessons. I should have seen this coming once he grew taller than me and gained pounds on me (although the latter was hard to do and took some time!). I’ve called him Shorty for six years, and now he calls me Shorty, and old lady and grandmaw. I told John I had until February 15 to teach Patrick how to drive, and he went off on a tangent about not letting him drive on streets or I’ll get arrested, and what about our insurance, isn’t that going to go through the roof?

We’re looking at this from two different perspectives, just like most everything we approach. I’m excited, he’s Mr. Dooms Day. I can’t wait for Patrick to start driving, he thinks it’s too soon. I made the reservation and paid the fee, and John said there’s no hurry, let’s wait. Since we have a lull between team sports, now is the opportune time to get it lined up, and then he can drive for the next few months in both winter and spring weather. The driving school is even hiring! Maybe I’ll get a part-time job, teaching my own son how to drive!