We have a toy collection for our dogs. They don’t get to play with them without supervision, however, because they are intent upon de-squeaking them and ripping out the stuffing. All in the name of fun, of course.

We keep the door closed to the room with the toys, usually. I say “usually” because it took me FOR-EV-ER to learn to close that door when I came out of the room. (Turns out it takes longer to teach me something than it does to teach the dogs something. I was starting to think I wasn’t trainable.) Even now, I figure out that I didn’t close the door when the dogs come into the house, rush to the toys and each come out with one; happy, happy, happy. It’s only a matter of minutes until the toys are in danger of losing an arm, a leg, part of their face. Or, I should say, further danger. Most of the toys are already missing some part of their anatomy.

On the occasions when I remember to close the door and the toy access is prevented, the dogs roam around the house to see if one of them dropped a toy behind a door or under a chair. Only after the toy patrol is finished and none are found do they decide to settle down.

Dusty and his glove

Except for Dusty. Toys are only one retrieving possibility for him. He’ll pick up the TV remote control (sometimes when it’s in my hand), socks, an in-progress knitted scarf and his personal favorite: gloves.

Where is Dusty finding these gloves? Hubby and I don’t know. We have no idea. I was just sure that all these gloves were in the garage. I was sure, but I was wrong.

Five of Dusty’s gloves

Dusty comes in the house, disappears around the corner and when next we see him, he has a glove in his mouth, wagging his tail, proudly displaying his treasure. I’ve taken to collecting the gloves, putting them out of his reach. So far we have five. I thought I’d be clever and let Dusty retrieve one more glove and then I’d have three pair.

Nope. Dusty has not brought me any gloves in the last few days. I think he is protesting our glove hoarding. That leaves me with five gloves.

What happens when I prompt him? “Dusty, get the glove!” (Sing-song, happy voice.) Dusty: Tail wagging, sits there. “Find the glove, Dusty!” He stands up, tail wagging. “Dusty, where’s the glove?” He looks down at the floor, tail wagging, in case I dropped a treat. (It happens.)

Maybe I’ll take the five gloves I have and stash them around the house to let him find them again in hopes of his retrieving the sixth glove. That might work, or maybe this was his plan all along, to get me to hide them time and time again. See, I am trainable!

If you find yourself banished to the dog house, make sure it has satellite TV.

Now if someone would just fetch the remote . . .