Just the idea of it had me pacing anxiously. But there it was in black and white:
All my doubt and consternation rammed up against this barrier. Say what? A dog? A big dog? A big running, jumping, happy-go-lucky dog? Behind bars? For how long? Say what?
Truth is, just the idea of having a dog – a healthy, ambulatory dog – had seemed confining enough to me. And now the walls were squeezed to an inconceivably narrow enclosure.
We lugged the crate into the house. It loomed over the room. Black, menacing, punitive. Her prison. Our prison.
Molly walked inside the pen. She walked inside and laid down. She laid down and relaxed. She fell asleep. She snored her doggy dreams. When she got better, we began leaving the door unlatched. She ambled in by herself, undisturbed by what you or I might judge as the cruel separation of inside and outside.
She has never been anything but completely unconfined in her confinement, because she has no idea of confinement.
Me? I have been thrashing my head against these bars all my life.