This past weekend, our BFF Jim visited from NYC for a few days. The weekend was an enduro of food and drink: Jim came in Thursday evening and we had dinner at Garnett's. Friday, we met some other friends for a long debauched lunch at Can Can. Saturday, we had lunch at Sticky Rice. Saturday night, we saw another fine Bill Kirchen show at Shenanigans. Sunday, we did brunch at Caliente, then took Jim to the airport.
And Jackson? He got all his walks, and lots of morning couch time with us, and treats whenever we went out. But we were certainly away from him more often than usual, and for longer stretches of time.
Jim stayed in our guestroom, second floor back, a room that we're almost never in. As a result, Jackson is almost never in it, either. I don't think he's been in it a dozen times, and never for more than a few minutes.
But he was in it this afternoon. When we came home from the airport, I took Jackson right out for a walk. Stacy headed upstairs to tidy up the guestroom.
Where she found a poop! Jackson has never even peed in the house before, but there was a nice big poop in the guestroom, next to the bed. (We checked with Jim. He says it's not his, and we believe him.)
Stacy was upset when she saw the poop. She thought it might signal the start of trouble - Jackson's been giving us some other minor difficulties lately. But when Jackson and I got home from the walk and Stacy told me, I started laughing. I think I understand Jackson's point of view, and it makes a lot of sense:
A new pack member came walking into Jackson's nice, secure world. We started spending lots of time with this new guy, leaving Jackson behind while the rest of us went out. And, even when we were home, the new guy got special treatment, sitting at the table and eating with us. No kibble for him. And it wasn't temporary - the new guy was there every morning, every damn day.
What the fuck? Jackson was ticked off. He needed to send a message, pronto, before the new guy settled in for good.
So he shat in Jim's crate. Take that, new guy. And don't let the doggie door hit you in the ass on the way out.
Given Jackson's limited vocabulary, I think he was remarkably eloquent. And, since he picked the afternoon of Jim's departure to nail the ninety-five feces, he's going to get incredibly strong reinforcement: Jackson poops, and Jim disappears.
Stacy's feeling better now. We're optimistic that this was a one-off, not the start of a problem. And I'm still laughing. Hey, I love poop jokes, and Jackson really knows how to tell them.