In this continuing saga of watching over 6 Wheaten terrier puppies I’ve come to the conclusion that I am not raising a litter as much as I am feeding and housing a cabal. The Oxford dictionary defines “cabal” as,

1. a secret political clique or faction.

   “a cabal of dissidents”

   And that’s just what they’ve become.  Right under my nose this group of fluffy balls of endless joy and mirth have organized themselves into a tightly knit group of anarchists and escape artists.  I haven’t completely deduced why they want to escape or where they hope to get to, but I’m sure that it is all for no good.

   Under the leadership of Asa, who was first born of the pack, they have been exploring my home/their “prison” for weaknesses in the perimeter and using advanced psyops techniques to probe my psychological blind spots.

   When they first came to be they seemed to epitomize the saying “Dog eat dog.”  They would have gladly let their siblings starve if it meant one more moment on mom’s milk bladder. After weaning, there was no thought of sharing at the kibble bowl.  Imagine all six puppies trying to cram their ravenous little heads into a 9 inch diameter bowl. But, lately, I have begun to notice that this motley group of individuals has slowly begun to meet together more and more often in what can only be described as a spirit of coordination and collusion.

   In particular (like most inmates I’m told) they gather at assigned meal times and no longer tried to force one another out of the food line.  There seemed to be a certain level of cooperation growing between them.  Even Sir Licks-a-Lot, the runt of the litter and the only male in this all female prison was invited to dine without the usual jostling or snarling.

   As I listened in to their conversations I was of course unable to understand what they were say for two reasons: 1. They were talking with their mouths full and 2. I don’t speak dog.

   So, like any semi-professional jailer, I relied on observation.  I have noticed changing behaviors around the “yard” during exercise time. Instead of moving in a mass like a preschool soccer team, they would send one member out to probe the slats on the front deck gate while distracting me with huge eyes and licking tongues.

   At first it was Asa. She broke from the pack to wander along the fence and without a moments hesitation or fear she silently made her way through the slats and out to the sidewalk along the fence line. Thankfully, the guards in the towers along the perimeter spotted her and she was quickly captured without a single shot being fired. Later, because of her dominance at the food bowl, she became too fat to squeeze between the slats and was no longer a security threat, though I do believe that she heads a squeaky toy smuggling operation that involves our grandchildren. An investigation is underway.

   Clearly the message to change tactics was sent down the ranks because at the next opportunity Sir Licks-a-Lot was chosen to approach the gate.  Because (as was mentioned earlier) he was the runt of the litter and as the only male I (unwisely) always gave him a little more latitude than the others.

   

   Sadly, my benevolence was thrown straight back into my face by this little guy that I trusted. Again, as the pack overwhelmed me with cuteness one sunny afternoon on the front deck, this puppy, in a ninja-like fashion slithered under the gate and ran toward the street. He probably would have gotten away with it except that the pack underestimated what a chicken he was and the second he saw a crow land a few yards away he dashed back to and under the fence begging forgiveness and earning the ire of the litter. He later became an informant and has helped to slow further attempts at escape.

   And now, because of the escapes what was once a beautiful suburban front yard looks like a landfill fence after a windstorm. Every possible point of egress is covered with a mosaic of real estate signs, lawn chairs and plywood. Random people have begun stopping by to inquire if the house is for sale or we are having a garage sale.

   And while the escape attempts have slowed significantly there is a new effort underway inside the cell block to retaliate by destroying all of my wife’s throw pillows and and to eat through every available power cord that touches the floor.