Shotgun Monte, Thief

There was a time, not that long ago, when my stuff was my own. Shoes unchewed, rugs unnibbled, pens – fountain pens! – unmolested, books safe from spine damage, counters un-surfed, socks un-stolen. Name it, I’ve lost it. Inhale deeply. Exhale completely.

Enter Shotgun Monte. Oh they grow out of it, people said. It’s teething, others wise in the ways of young dogs told me, nodding with that special irritating wait-and-see way. And the best, if the dog chews, it’s your fault for providing the chance. Thanks. Helpful.

Sweet little Monte chews in the abstract, half asleep against the sofa arm, mouthing the corner. He rends with intent, stuffed plushies eviscerated with focus – always the butts or eyes first. Creepy.

And he steals. Shamelessly. With joy. Computer mouse, shoe, sock, phone, loaf of bread, $170 brand new Pilot fountain pen purchased as a special self-gift at a stationery on a dark ‘L’ street in Chicago. He grabs the unguarded thing and gazelles through the house, leaping from rug to rug, lips stretched in a huge doggie smile around the loot hanging out of his mouth, eyes wild. And he’s fast. Can’t be caught. Fleet and slithery like a Victorian era pick pocket.

Yep, the correct response is no, drop it. But I defy you to take action against that impossibly fluid athleticism used in mad glee, the absolute fun he has in running cycles through the WideEyedHouse. He drops the purloined, usually, with no harm, if you don’t take your eyes off of him. But really, don’t look away.