Let me start this entry by saying that I love my dog. I love taking her hiking, going dogsledding, and doing lots of other things. I love watch 2,000 years of Malamute instincts coming out when she's on the trail. Recently, though, I've discovered a gaping deficiency in her instinctual knowledge:
Gardens.
One of the main purposes of raised bed gardening is to create light, aerated soil that is uncompacted by human feet...or the paws of an 85-pound dog. I put up a fence around the finished beds, albeit a temporary one. My daughters play in the backyard, and Milady roams freely as well, so I wanted a visual reminder to say Don't Step Here.
The First Time It Happened: Didn't see it happen, but I noticed pawprints in the beds. Told the dog "No," put her into her dog run for a bit.
The Second Time: Saw her push through the barely-secured gate. Pulled her out, alpha-rolled her to emphasized my point, then confined her to her run. I thought I'd been abundantly clear.
The Third Time: I watched through the kitchen window this morning as she nosed at the (much more secured) gate, then padded around the perimeter probing for weak spots. I thumped on the window to warn her. She looked up, saw me, then squeezed her way in anyway through where the garden fence meets the yard fence. She trampled on both beds before I could get her out. Again the alpha roll (and some choice words) before I kenneled her.
She shall remain banished until further notice--at least until such time as I can erect a secure fence.Now I have to re-turn the soil she compacted. Sigh.
I guess trampling gardens wasn't such a big problem for the Inuit dog breeders above the Arctic Circle.
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