Callie is a sweet, gentle, lovable gal. She is a Staffie mix after all. She gives us almost no trouble at all and so she has earned the right to be a full-time, free-range house dog — except when we leave the property for an extended period of time. But that’s not Callie’s fault.

Josephine likes to play rowdy. If I’m here I can monitor that and shut it down before anything gets torn up. When I’m not here, she and Blondie sometimes knock into things, moving furniture around a bit, but rarely tear anything up. If Callie gets into the mix, Callie likes to play tug-o-war. Dog beds are handy tug toys because all three can pull on it at once. That leads to tearing. Tearing leads to stuffing poking out. Stuffing poking out gets everyone excited about pulling out all the stuffing. We’ll arrive home again to find an “exploded” dog bed. Not good!

So when Marie and I are both going to be gone a while, Callie gets crated. But she doesn’t mind.

Callie likes her “room” so much that she spends time snoozing in there even when she doesn’t have to. It is cushy-comfy and she’s safe from being stepped on or run-over by another dog.

Cochise has decided he likes to sleep in her room too. At first I encouraged him to stay out of there saying, “That’s Callie’s room.”

“My room.”

I thought about that for a moment and realized that this *particular* crate was indeed Cochise’s way back when he was our first foster dog. He *loved* his room. It may have been the first real comfort he had ever known. And while he was going through a particularly rough treatment for heartworm, it was his sanctuary. Since then we have bought and destroyed several more crates, but I’ve always reserved this one only for the best behaved dogs because of sentimental value. So — okay, yes, this is technically HIS crate. So I let him stay put. Eventually he got thirsty and went to get a drink. Callie was waiting.

She slipped in and pretended to be sound asleep when Cochise got back. He said nothing, but sat glaring at her for the longest time. He grumbled a bit at her, but she pretended not to notice.

Cochise was not going to confront her directly. He has staff for that.

He sent his Assistant Big Dog, Josephine.

“Excuse me, Callie: Cochise would like to rest in that crate. You need to come out.”

(silence)

“Callie, I said The Big Dog wants to rest in this crate, you need to come out and let him have this bed.”

No movement, no acknowledgment, no sound.

“Doug, can you get her to come out?”

“Hey, as far as I’m concerned that is Callie’s room and she is welcome to snooze there whenever she wants.” I could swear I heard a sigh of contentment from Callie, but she didn’t move at all, feigning sleep: her form of passive aggression.

Cochise humphed at me and strode over by the fireplace.

Josie trotted to him, “I tried Cochise, I really did. She won’t listen!”

The Chief settled onto one of the big dog beds, Josie stepped in to curl up beside him. He glared at her for a moment, then relented, “Oh — alright, come on then.”

“Thanks, Chief. You’re the best boss.”