Ginger is resting peacefully in her crate after her big day today. She was spayed, had her teeth cleaned and one canine tooth extracted. She wandered, stood, sat, and wasn’t quite sure how to get comfortable until I put her blankies in the crate. She went right in. I draped a towel across the top, dimmed all of the lights and voila, sleep.
Ginger is a retired show dog. She’s comfortable in crates. They are second nature. It took a while for me to remember that, coaxing her to lie down making beds for her every time she paused.
Gracie never had a crate because that would be, you know, unthinkable.
Besides, I worked at home and she was with me 24/7 for six years, until Duncan came.
Why use a crate with baby Duncan when he was supposed to keep Gracie company and be the cure for her separation hysteria . . . and he was. So, Duncan was never in a crate, until Phoebe was being shown in conformation, and wouldn’t it have been swell if he would sit quietly in the crate while I ran back and forth to the car unloading more stuff, oh the stuff dreams are made of. Instead he was my constant shadow, of course I miss that now.
Phoebe was very good in a crate at the dog shows, waiting patiently for her turn to go in the ring and score ribbons and trophies so big they wouldn’t fit in the car, which she did several times in her career.
The crate has been in the house since we moved over here from the next block, in fact it blocks the door to the living room to protect my books from Son of Wild Thing, Yossarian who thinks books should have round corners, but no one has ever used it until today.
Sweet dreams Ginger.