My dog Finn, as my carpets will attest, is very much an inside dog. And like we do with my kids, we have to sometimes put him outside for some fresh air and the chance to explore something beyond video game controllers, left socks, and the occasional stray Lego piece.
That’s when the fun begins for us. I admit, it sounds cruel, but I will watch out the window, giggle, and take pictures as Finn struggles to understand why he is outside. Because also like my kids he only really likes to be outside when it’s on his own terms: when he bolts out the door and can roam the neighborhood like a big shot, barking at cats, and then running away from them with his tail between his legs the minute they turn and hiss.
So when he’s outside safe and semi-secure in our patio, I watch as he begins a series of rituals. He stops and stares inside at us from the other side of the slider door. He tilts his head as if to ask: “Aren’t you coming outside?”
Then he runs as fast as he can straight for the gate on the side of the house to see if maybe it was left open. Then he runs to the small gate that stands at the end of our patio—the only thing keeping him from the vast expanse of the outside world. He checks to see if one of the kids left it unlatched. He will use his dog “hand” to jiggle the door a bit to see if it will open. Then, he will bat at the latch to see if it’s loose. Then, he stands up on two legs and uses both dog hands to shake the entire gate.
When he’s convinced that it’s secure and there is no chance for escape, he begins to settle in. By settle in, I mean try to fit his entire medium-dog-sized Queensland Heeler body into a plastic people chair, because you know, that’s where you sit when you’re a people. It’s obviously not a comfortable position for him as he battles to keep his hind parts from falling off the chair.
Eventually, he will feel brave enough to explore. Often, just as soon as he gets focused on a weird stick or small butterfly he will hear a noise, and usually that noise is a giggle from me or the kids spying on him, and he’ll come running to the door, relieved we’ve finally come to rescue him from all that fresh air and dirt.
Instead we take pictures of him looking at us thoughtfully. Sometimes we’ll write something on a piece of paper and tape it to the sliding glass door above where he is standing staring at us so that it resembles a thought bubble, and we’ll take pictures and post them on the Internet. (OK, we did that just once—and felt really, really bad about it.)
When he thinks he’s being clever and trying to figure out a way to break open the latch on the fence—which he is usually more successful at doing than not—we’ll secretly take pictures and post them on Facebook. And when he sits in front of the slider waiting to come in, resting his nose against the glass causing his face to scrunch, we laugh some more and post it to Instagram.
It’s fair play because I think if my dog could take Instagram pictures of me he would. He knows too much. He spends the majority of his time inside, and he sees all the embarrassing stuff that happens in my house, like all the stuff I say when I talk to myself, the stuff my kids say when I turn my back.
I imagine he’d post pictures and make little comments like, “This is what she wore to her meeting today, OMG #GetaStylist #Hello1985isOver #PickUpaFashionMagAlready.”
When I’m frazzled and talking to myself: “She’s talking to herself again. Can you say cuckoo? #WhoIsSheTalkingToo #CrazyWoman #ImStandingOverHere.”
When the kids are eating dinner: “So which one is going to drop me a treat today? #LuckyDay #ImBettingonTheSmallOne #SnatchAMeal #ApologizeLater.”
When we are gathered in the living room and he’s being sneaky, I imagine it would be, “She doesn’t even realize I’m hiding her gym sock under my paw LOL #Tasty #SnackforLater #WhosAGoodDog.”
Better yet would be the photos he’d post of himself. The bored selfie when we first send him outside. “Outside again. What am I supposed to do out here? Bor-ing!” #WhatDidIDo #Savages #MaybeIShouldDig.”
Or a selfie of himself batting an ant across the floor between his two paws. “#LookWhatIFound #MakingFriends #Besties.”
Of course, dogs don’t really take selfies, or have social media accounts. However, because he uses his paws like hands and really seems to think he’s human, I’m keeping all cameras hidden in dog-proof lockup.
Shelly Cone doesn’t realize Finn is really wondering why her family can’t escape the inside to get to the outside and play.
