Doing time

It started with the toilet paper. Root Beer's particular fondness for a fresh roll of white dangly pieces of chlorinated and compressed hard woods was discovered about two weeks ago. Since then it has been a constant bellow of "shut the door" or "who forgot to shut the bathroom door."
My carpet is now speckled with miniature clippings of white toilet paper fluff.
Next on the hit list was the laundry basket, which is strategically placed next to the bathroom door. At first her quest was innocent. A stray sock here and an old towel there and anything sorta smelly and damp. Now, with the eye of a fashionata, Root Beer stalks the basket waiting for an expensive work blouse or a favoured high-end, my-boys-can't-afford, sweater or shirt to be dropped. With the stealth of a former Mission Impossible star, Root Beer maneuvers the clothing out of the basket and into a corner of the living room. If the boys and I are distracted, Root Beer munches, if we are quick on our game, we may only suffer a few tiny teething indents into our treasured clothing.
Her next adventure begins in the kitchen. With great innocence she waits until her food drops into her dish. She'll lean over and gingerly accept the food into her mouth. Whoever is feeding her gives her a small pat on the head, approving of these good doggie manners. With that pat as her guiding anchor, Root Beer launches into a full assault on her metal dish. If timed, she would break the land speed record for food gobbler. Energized, she searches the kitchen for any missed molecule of nutrition. She's not actually that picky. The food she's searching for does not have to be nutritious, it just has to be available. After she has tipped over the garbage, jumped in the potato bin and sniffed through the antique armoire, her work and dinner, are done. She ambles over to the living room, rests her head on her paws and snoozes.
After all that running around, you would think the dog would be tired and ready to rest easy. Well that isn't always the case. Last night, for instance, Root Beer learned the value of a good rest and we, after a brief frighting moment, enjoyed the poetic justice of a lesson learned.
The dog tore through the house with a whirlwind of fur and cresting energy. She jumped on the couch and was told to get off. She grabbed for the picture frame sitting on the wall unit and reached the crystal vase filled with pocket change. The money spilled and Root Beer was scolded but there wasn't any stopping her. Little miss was on a mission. Even a long walk couldn't chill her rampant ardor for destruction.
When entering my house, you have two choices. You can either proceed straight ahead and that direction will take you to our addition, a cedar sunroom, or you can take the eight steps leading upstairs. The steps are bracketed by a wrought white metal staircase. The spaces between the columns of the staircase vary in width. Some are fairly large and others much more narrow. Bel, our more serene family pet, uses these spaces as a shortcut to the downstairs.
Last night Root Beer decided she would follow the cat. Or, at least I'm assuming that's what her doggie brain told her she was doing. Instead, she yelped. It was a little cry of pain and it made me jump from the couch. I went running to the stairs not knowing what I would find. Lodged in between two of the bars was the puppy. Her small head was firmly wedged and she looked like a forlorn criminal caught on petty crimes awaiting justice from Sheriff Matt Dillon of Dodge City.
I hesitated for a brief second and then I lifted Root Beer up, turned her sideways and slid her through the narrow bars. She licked my fingers and curled up soon after on my feet.
I think she may have learned her lesson. This morning my toilet tissue was exactly where it should be.