My sweet dog Juno is a little imp. She thinks I can't see her when she shoots into the garage as I open the door while piloting T-Hoe down the driveway. She scampers in and runs to the front, where she grabs a mouthful of dry cat food from the large roasting pan that feeds the felines. She disappears as soon as she chomps on that clandestine bite. Or so she thinks.
Cars have windows, you know. I see her enter. The garage door tells me she's leaving. I press the opener, in this case the closer, and it starts its descent. BUT THEN IT STOPS! And starts back up. That means a toddler, of which we have zero, or a cat or dog, of which we have seven, has ventured under the door while it is going down. Some kind of extra-smart sensor prevents a catastrophe. Or a toddlostrophe. Or in this case, a dogostrophe.
Silly Juno. She must be rolling under that door, reaching back for her fedora at the last minute like Indiana Jones. Little does she know her secret is out. Surely she realizes this behavior is frowned on. Why else would she scoot around to the front of the garage, to the people door where I will come out, smiling with her border collie genes, twinkling her hazel eyes, panting like her mouth did not just chew up cat food a few seconds earlier?
A couple of times I've caught her red-tongued. Trapped her in the garage by shutting the door as soon as T-Hoe clears the entry portal. Then Juno stands by the people door. Acting like she just ran in to see me. Even though I can see her chewing. I must admit that I barely chastise her. Hardly a "tsk tsk" escapes my lips.
Female dogs will be female dogs.