In praise of the crate

It's 3:30 p.m. on a snowy Saturday afternoon, and Angus is in his crate. He's had a very busy day so far--up at 5:30 a.m., outside repeatedly, two long walks, a little "name game," some stern corrections when he barked at a young woman sitting on a bench down by the lake, some huge praise and treats when he didn't bark at a jogger and five people walking past, a little tennis ball, a little tug, a lot of romping with Rosie in the snow.

But now he is in his crate, and he is sleeping, and we can do whatever we like without those puppy fears--you know, fears that he'll chew up an electrical cord or jump on the coffee table or reverse all of his housebreaking and pee in the living room.  He's in his crate, and he is safe and we are free.

We did not always have this freedom with all of our dogs. Toby, as I've mentioned before, was my first dog, and I knew nothing. I didn't crate-train him because I thought crates were cruel, like jail, like being in the pound. Consequently, over his first year he destroyed my couch, ate my boyfriend's favorite ballcap and took eight months to be house broken.

Baby Toby and the couch he later destroyed.

We tried half-heartedly to crate-train Boscoe, but we were not convinced then of the need for a crate. And with Boscoe it hardly mattered: He was the sweetest, mellowest, most obedient dog on the planet and he didn't really need to be confined. He never did anything wrong. This was the dog who, as a tiny puppy, squeezed under the back fence to freedom but only trotted around to the front of the house and sat on the front steps, waiting for us to find him.

Riley was, as you know, terrified of everything, and that included being in a crate. We don't know what happened in his first home, but it wasn't good, and while we did keep him in a crate for the first few months whenever we went to work, he never got used to it. It was heartbreaking; I would drive home every day on my lunch break to let him out and he was always so happy to be in the yard, and free!  And then when my lunch break was over I'd have to physically wrangle him into the crate--he'd actually spread his four legs as wide as possible to keep from fitting inside the doorway, and I'd have to peel them off, one by one, and stuff him in.

As I drove away I could hear his screams and howls. It killed me.

As soon as it was responsible to let Riley stay home without being incarcerated, we took the crate apart and stored it away. He never used it again, though he did stake out his own little den areas--under the kitchen table, and under the dining room table.

I had heard people say that their dogs loved their crates and sometimes went inside of their own volition, and I have to tell you, I thought those people were lying to me.

And then we got Rosie. And now, Angus. And both of them love their crates.

Both learned early on that if they went into their crates only good things would happen there--food and toys and treats. Even though it's only been a month or so since Angus joined our pack, he knows: If I sing out, "Angus, go to bed!" he turns and races into his crate and I toss in a handful of kibble and he is happy.  He stays in there without a peep. And why not? It has a thick soft mat, and the blue fleece blanket that he came to us with, and a small water dish, and a whole array of chew toys--a knuckle bone, an elk antler, a flat fleece puffy toy. All the comforts of home.

He sleeps in that crate (we still carry it up the stairs to our bedroom every night because we are big believers in the pack sleeping together) and he eats in that crate and when we eat he's in that crate, too, and when we are not home he hangs out in that crate and sometimes, like now, he's in there just because we all need a break.

He knows it's his safe place, and when he went through a goofy period where he didn't want us to put the harness on him before walks, he'd run and hide in the crate.  It was his sanctuary.  (I learned to shut the crate door before getting the harness out of the closet.)

And now, as I write this, Angus is curled up in his crate and Rosie is standing on the back of the couch, barking at the mailman out the front window.  I know the solution for this:

"Rosie, go to bed!"

Ahhhh. Peace.