Jeremy And The Hall Console Table

Through the many trials and tribulations of raising Jeremy , none exemplifies the frustrations of being a dog owner as much as the saga of the hall console table.

This table had been given to me when I got my first place. Mum said that everybody needs a hall console table, so they have a place to dump their mail and drop their keys. Fine, whatever, it’s free, I’ll take it. But, you don’t appreciate what you’ve got until it’s gone.

I brought Jeremy home and discovered that this sweet, quiet little dog was just getting started. Once he was familiar with his surroundings, his true colors started shining through. This dog found places in the house that I didn’t even know existed. His nose was in every corner, and every seam in the flooring. If there wasn’t a seam, he made one, creating quite a problem with the landlord.

He happily galloped through the house, draBroken-Table1gging his leash behind him, exploring the entire place. Then, I heard the crash. I went running to the entry, and there was my terrified dog, and the console table lying on its side. The leash, of course, was wrapped around a leg of the console. Unfortunately, Leash, leg, and dog were about a metre away from the table. Yes, the leg had broken off. And knocked a hole in the wall. Jeremy looked at me as if to say, “Look what the table did to me!”

Of course, the mail that had accumulated for the last month was scattered far and wide. My keys were nowhere to be found, and the flower arrangement that Mum had put together so artfully was in pieces.

To my amazement, though, Jeremy sat there with that ridiculous grin on his face, thumping his tail on the floor happily, oblivious to the wreckage he had caused. Why he wasn’t running madly through the house dragging the table leg behind him was a testament to his calm nature – or laziness, I’m not sure which.

I disentangled my silly dog and swept up the pieces. Then, realized that I couldn’t find my keys. I looked everywhere. Perhaps they had been in the rubble I had just put in the bin. So, I dumped out the bin and sifted through the debris, to no avail. I estimated the distance from the table to the nearest bit of furniture, and it seemed too far for the keys to have flown, but I checked anyway. It was no good, though. The keys were nowhere to be found.

About that time, Jeremy coughed. My stomach dropped into my shoes, and I knew where my keys were. They HAD to be in the belly of that beast. Great.

I scooped him up and rushed to the car, only to realize that I couldn’t start the car. Because I didn’t have my keys .

I ran back into the house to call the vet, and couldn’t find my phone.

Until I check my jacket pocket. My phone was there – along with the keys.

Jeremy walked calmly in, smiled at me, and hiked his leg on the new console table.