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Walkin'

I hit a rare day last week when I couldn’t walk outside with the dogs.
Actually, I tried to go to one of our regular places but the parking lot wasn’t plowed. It looked like a 50/50 chance of getting stuck in the snow, so I returned home and gave both Pearl and Buzz a dog biscuit, as is my custom after a walk.
Buzz likes the concept – go for a ride, skip the walk and have a treat – just fine. Buzz can sleep near 24/7, waking only to move to a more comfortable spot, to eat and to answer nature’s call.
In his next life I hope he’s an investment banker.
Young Pearl still craves her walk.
If she doesn’t get out she bongs about the house, driving Buzz and me to distraction, so I chased her around the yard for a few minutes.
Because of the recent days of no school due to weather, I’ve had quite a bit of idle time of late. In the fall I started rebuilding the automatic chicken door closer (AC/DC), but the garage is not heated and much too cold for inventing.
In theory I have free roam of our house, but as a good husband I try to confine my activities to my bedroom office or the garage. Sabra has the senses and skills of a veteran crime scene investigator, and she always knows exactly where I’ve been if I journey beyond either.
Before the holidays, for example, I got into the closet where we keep suitcases and other miscellaneous gear for vacations. I love to travel and wanted to get a head start on packing for our annual trip to Denver. I like to be ready for anything. One of these years, I keep reminding Sabra, we’re going to get stuck in a snowdrift in the middle of Nebraska. Then she’ll be glad I tossed in the camp stove, cook set and enough Ramen noodle soup for an army in bivouac. I’ll be the hero of I-80, melting snow and cooking up steaming bowls of soup for stranded travelers who might starve to death 30 miles from Ogallala, Neb.
It’s a little known historical fact that General George Custer’s last words were, “At least we don’t have to go through Nebraska.”
But I digress.
The point I was trying to make is that all I did was take a peek to check on my acetylene torch (you never know when you’ll have to cut through rebar), and Sabra knew the instant she returned home that I’d been in the travel closet. I caught holy you know what for it too. How was I to know that the cats somehow managed to get locked into the closet? How was I to know they’d claw at the carpet the better part of a day to get out? How was I to know I’d mistake their caterwauling for the wind even though it was a dead calm day?
My theory is the little buggers did it on purpose.
They really don’t like me much.
For one thing, they resent my attempts to minimize their care while we’re gone. Back in my bachelor days, I’d often leave my cat Rogue, adopted as a stray, untended for up to four days. Before going I’d treat him with the tastiest wet foods so he’d eat his fill. Then I’d cut open a 25 pound bag of dry food and set out a large pan of water. A couple extra litter boxes later, I’d be ready to hit the road.
I don’t think he even noticed I was gone.
In a previous life, I think he was a hedge fund manager.
Sabra’s Conan and Meow, on the other hand, must be fed their carefully measured ration of kibble twice a day, lest the little darlings eat themselves into furry basketball-sized dumplings with legs. For fear that their highnesses have to waddle about untidy Fresh Step, their box also needs tending twice a day.
It makes me so mad I ought to . . . get out for a walk before cabin fever sets in.