March 16th was the 6 month anniversary of Padfoot’s Gotcha Day. My boy is all sleek intensity. He thinks he’s the Secret Service and I am the President’s errant daughter. He has to go everywhere with me. I have to take him with me to get the mail. If he is in the car and I stop for coffee, he has to get out and do a perimeter check.

It’s. His. Job.

All of which makes it difficult to leave him at home.

Last month I promised to share my trials and errors with Padfoot. While everything happens all at once, I am breaking it down by topic. This month is crating. I work from home so Padfoot is rarely alone and then usually for about 90 minutes.

Things have changed since I adopted Beez in 1993. I gave him the run of the apartment and balcony when I went to work and came home to whatever devastation he’d created. I arrived home not long after I adopted him to find Beez—who desperately needed a walk after more than 8 hours—had chewed both of his leashes and I had no way to restrain him. I finally slipped an electrical cord through his collar to take him out.

I crated Gypsy when she was young, to protect the apartment from her devastation. I crate Padfoot to protect him from himself.

Now days we have nanny cams. I had a cheap Wyze camera for package delivery and I turned it around. Not only could I watch and hear Padfoot, I could also speak to him.

Padfoot hated his crate and would howl piteously, making this screech/squeeling noise like when your steering goes out, but louder and more obnoxious. I sang nonsense to him and it would calm him down. I’d check back in thirty minutes later and he’d be howling again.

Nothing helped. Not the YouTube videos of calming dog music, Not the enrichment treats, not his special crate-safe toys. One day I checked in and he’d bounced against the front panel and knocked it off its hooks and collapsed it. I found him wallowing in garbage strewn all over the kitchen.

She who does not like to be named said to secure the crate with zip ties and lock the door with carabiners. I followed her advice, using one carabiner halfway up and thinking it entirely unnecessary since the door closed with 3 pins that fit into loops and a latch.

An hour later I checked in. The crate was empty, Padfoot knocked the door loose and—skinny boy that he is—squeezed out the bottom corner. He wrestled the top off a 2 pound jar of Milkbone Minis and ate more than half, giving himself a tummy ache.

Friends agreed, Padfoot was too anxious for a crate. I want to stress, in all this time Padfoot loved to rip up garbage but he did not destroy anything that mattered. He did treat my glasses case like a chew toy, but that was it. He did not knock over my grandmother’s antique lamp, he did not eat my shoes. He did not tear up my bedding. He left my hundreds of accessible books alone. My one concern was that in his counter surfing and bouncing around he could hurt himself.

As for the crate, I figured if my Houdini could entertain himself breaking out, he could also entertain himself breaking in. I hooked the door shut with a bungee cord and started putting his meals inside.

I puppy proofed the apartment and saved small boxes to tower on the counters for his surfing enjoyment. I loaded his crate with all the fun things.

And I left.

Preparing to leave was labor intensive but it worked.

For a while.

Then I noticed that despite the awesome entertainment center I’d created for him, he he spent his time racing from the living room window to the kitchen window to the balcony, looking for me and winding himself up. When he launched himself off the recliner next to my living room window he sent it rocking so hard I was afraid it would break. I wound up zip-tying the mechanism.

It broke my heart.

The weather intervened. I’ve lived in the same apartment in a two-family for 35 years. I lost the key to my deadbolt sometime in the 90s. The winter temperatures warped the wood just enough that while I can push the door shut and turn the bolt from the inside, I can no longer get the door to latch when I pull it shut from the hall.

Meaning my boy could get out and risk engaging with the unfriendly dogs downstairs, which would be a disaster.

Run of the apartment was no longer an option. Then a small miracle happened. Padfoot went into his crate and laid down for no particular reason. Spending a few months with the crate containing all manner of goodies and having the freedom to come and go changed his perception of it.

We’ve been using the new crate protocol for about 8 weeks. So far, so good.

I’m sure you’re wondering what kinds of treats I load his crate with. I follow Cincinnati Animal CARE protocols. I figure since they handle as many as 300 dogs onsite at any time, their recommendations are trustworthy. I will share about enrichment next month.

UPDATE: We struck a compromise. Padfoot gets the run of the living room, with one window to look out, and can come and go from his crate as he pleases. As of this posting, he barks for a few minutes for form when I leave but quickly settles down, though he spends most of his time looking out the window for me. When I return home, he gets a quick walk and then he conks out. Hopefully he will progress to the point where he conks out while I am gone.