Feeling a little left out

Family Wy discovered some new issues to work on in group therapy. Abandonment. We’re having abandonment issues.

Matthew, Dr. Wy, was away for a week on business. While this was all fine and dandy for Blanche DuBois at first, since I let her eat food off the floor and let her smell things on walks longer than her father allows her, Blanche had a turning point where she just missed her Daddy.

All sudden-like, Miss Blanche just would not go into her crate.

For two years, when asked to go to her crate, Blanche DuBois would walk into her crate, sit down, and watch you lock the door. No problem. Sometimes she was rewarded with a treat, sometimes she got only a “Good girl!” but she always went into the crate.

Dr. Wy, you see, works from home many days of the week. His unconventional schedule means that Blanche has lots of time to just lay on the couch or loll dutifully at his feet while he grades papers. But during the Dr’s absence, Miss Blanche had to abide by my draconian schedule, wherein I work from nine-to-five daily, and thereby Miss Blanche is locked in the crate during the day.

By the end of Matthew’s business trip, Blanche just would not go into the crate. I guess she missed her time with her Daddy that much and was tired of being locked away. She would go to the other room and lay limp in a dead weight pose and just sulk. There was no getting her into the crate unless extra-large, extra-chewy, extra-special treats were used as an enticement.

This went on through the first night of Dr. Wy’s return. Dear husband came home, and we were ready to go out for a “welcome home” dinner, and Blanche just would not go into the crate.

I told Matthew, “She’s been doing this all week.”

She went all limp and squishy, and Matthew went Alpha Male on her.

“Blanche! Crate!” He growled, pointing where she was to go.

Instead she crawled, belly on the ground, to the kitchen, and cowered on the floor.

Matthew marched to the kitchen, “Blanche! Crate!”

She wriggled a few feet closer to the crate, but would not go.

As a last resort, she was bodily lifted and placed into the crate.

Locking our apartment door behind us and stepping away, we heard the unmistakable, glass-rattling baritone of a betrayed, full-blooded basset hound howling, full tilt, for all the world to know her angst.

Separation anxiety. Matthew was gone so long, our sweet floppy basset developed separation anxiety.

And now we know we can never divorce because the dog would go nuts.