Wednesday, September 03, 2025
Chase, my three-year-old Heinz-57, came to me as an adorable 8-week-old ball of mischief. Somewhere along the way, he decided his true calling was escape artistry. Scaling fences? Easy. Digging under them? Child’s play. I’ve raised my fence to seven feet, lined the perimeter with boulders that weigh more than I do—and still, Chase plots.
For the past glorious few months, I thought we’d reached a truce. I’d come home to find him safely inside the dog area, and I could breathe easy. But Houdini has returned. Lately, I find him wagging at the door, all innocence, as if he hadn’t just tunneled out like a cartoon coyote. My response? Let him inside, crate him, then dash outside to stuff yet another hole with whatever I can lift. The lava rocks? Too heavy. The easier fixes? Running out fast.
So here we are again: me, on constant watch, and Chase, dreaming up new jailbreaks. He thinks it’s fun. I think it’s a heart attack waiting to happen. What I know for sure is this—he cannot be allowed to star in “The Case of the Wandering Lost Dog.”
Dear Friends, I blinked, and Houdini struck again. So much for the ‘puppy from hell’ being history.
—Diana
Diana's Morning Blog 