Jack In The Dog House With A Chapeau

My little Jack is in the dog house. Figurative. Not literal. He eschews the dog house on the end of the porch, out of the wind, lined with cedar chips, for most of the year. He prefers sleeping under the Gator, on hard pointy gravel, to be in the most happening location, in case someone or something comes up the driveway. Not that he barks for an actual intruder...

OR, Jack burrows into the hay bales over by the BARn. Left from the days of the goats and mini-pony. The bales yet unsold to our neighbor for his horses. Jack is a dog's dog. No namby-pamby sissy. More of a dog's dog than Mr. French was a man's man to Uncle Bill on Family Affair.

Anyhoo... Jack is in the figurative dog house because Farmer H took umbrage to the loss of his lawn-mowing hat. Which he says was chewed up by my little Jack overnight. That the straw hat with a green visor area blew off the lawnmower, and was dismembered by Jack. Which is highly possible.

"You know he's a chewer. His Dachshund half is a mouthy breed, and so is his nippy Heeler half. He's always been a chewer. Your hat smells like you, from all the sweat embedded in its brow area. Of course Jack chewed your hat! You can get another one at Tractor Supply. Or the Family Center." (Where Farmer H buys his dog and cat food, and assorted medicines for former livestock).

So quick to point the accusatory finger, yet so slow to take responsibility for leaving his precious straw hat on top of his lawnmower. During a storm which felled a tree on top of a house not two miles away.

Jack is often more scapegoat than canine.