My Clever Scavenger

A dog who opens doors, who opens jars and bottles.
Canines, Incisors, Nose, Head, Paws.

We crated him. He got out. We crated him again. He got out.

Asleep on the sofa: the McGyver of dogs.

The light from my refrigerator door told the story first. Left swung open--panchetta, cheese, tomatoes disappeared--two times. I removed two screws and placed the handle in a closet. He used his nose.

He tried the bathroom once. He turned on the faucets and drank. And then left the room to flood into the basement. A hand towel was knocked into the sink by doggy-accident.

I placed a baby lock on the fridge. He broke it.
Leftover ham, olives, and cold green tea.
I tried a second lock in a different location. He broke it.
Pepperoni, green peppers, and milk.

The refrigerator remains blocked behind a beer meister every day for over a decade. One time, he pulled the handle and drank beer.

Now my beer is locked.
And the fridge is safe.

The Lazy-Susan has been opened and turned until he found the bread crumbs.  Nothing else was disrupted. Only an empty box was left to gather for the garbage.

He opened bi-fold closet doors secured with bungee cords.

And ate rice, and cereal, and dog biscuits, and dog food, and crackers, and cookies.

He stepped on the release plate, opening the trash compactor. With ease.

He lifts the lids on plastic bins. With ease.

He twists open lids on pickle jars, mustard, and peanut butter. With ease.

He punctured a beer can and emptied it. With ease.

He opens bottles and bananas. His nose nudges open kitchen cabinets, handbags, and coat pockets.

But he has not cracked a can yet although I have found them around the house on occasion.

He leaves behind an open door, shredded cardboard, an overturned end table. He leaves behind the empty containers. But never a stain, a trace of food, or a scent is left.

He cleans his plate. And he always hopes and hopes and hopes to clean my plate.

I rescued him over twelve years ago. He was malnourished and abused. Someone found him along busy Route 7 in Delaware and brought him to the shelter. When I took him, cruel bruises still showed beneath his fur. He flinched and cowered with sudden movement and noise.

Now, over a decade later, my clever scavenger has definitely mellowed...a hair.