My eleven year old, blind dog has bested me. She is a sweet, beautiful American Eskimo with a full, stunning white coat. We have had her since she was a seven week old puppy. At a year, she tore her ACL and had to have surgery to fix it. At three years old, she began having seizure. There followed a lifelong dose of Potassium Bromide. At nine years old, she went blind. After a couple falls into our pool, we bisected the yard with a fence and learned to live with the fact that we don’t dare move any furniture. Through all of her health problems, she has maintained an indomitable will to live.

She always slept in my room on a bed in the corner; however, about a year ago, she became a little lax in her toilet habits. She hasn’t become incontinent; she just doesn’t always choose to go outside. Meaning if it’s raining, she might not see the need to void where it is cold. If the Goldens bother her, she might not see the need to void where she is being annoyed. Or lastly, if she’s mad at me…well, you guessed it. Now before you non-dog people tell me I should just put her down, let me remind you, she has been a faithful companion for eleven years. You don’t end a loved one because she’s become inconvenient. My relationship with her has lasted longer than my marriage.

Beyond the unpleasantness of occasionally having to clean up after her, I also began fearing the stairs. She would wander around upstairs in the dark while I slept and I had nightmares of waking in the morning to find her crumpled at the bottom in a small, white pile of fluff. So I banished her to below-stairs. Easier said than done.

At first I had the brilliant plan of putting her in the downstairs bathroom. I gave her a bed, I gave her water, I even put a few toys in there to keep her occupied. It lasted about a month. Then she decided she wasn't going to stay in there. It started as a small rebellion. When I would call her to go to bed, she would begin walking ever so slowly toward the stairs. I’d warning her, “Pepper, don’t do it. Pepper, don’t you dare.” The minute my feet hit the hallway to the dining room, she would break into a sprint and dash up the stairs to her bed.

So I stopped announcing what I was going to do. At some point, I would pick her up and carry her to the bathroom. She learned to tell time. When it approached 9:00PM, she would begin edging toward the stairs. Sometimes I wouldn’t even realize she was gone until it was time to get her.

I then bought a barrier to block off the great room from the rest of the house. That ended the sneaking, but it created a bigger problem. As soon as I went upstairs, she started scratching on the bathroom door. Not tentative little scratches. No, I mean huge, long incessant scratching that went on, sometimes, all night. You’d think that eventually I wouldn’t hear it. I was operating under sleep deprivation, right?

I heard it. I’ve always been sensitive to white noise. I still hear the train that goes by at 2:00AM every single night.

I admitted defeat, but reasoned she would be happy just staying in the great room. She would have the run of the family room and would be able to go into the kitchen to get water whenever she wanted. Best of all, the whole thing is tiled, so clean up would be easy.

I got another month. She then started chewing the barrier. I would hear her gnawing away in the night and scream down the stairs, telling her to stop. When she found she couldn’t chew her way out, she started pushing. She learned a little pressure on the left side would create an opening a small dog could slide through. Now here’s where I admit my own stupidity. She escaped a few nights in a row and wound up in my room. I assumed the cats were letting her out. They love to jump the barrier, but sometimes they miss and kick the whole thing down. I braced the barrier with their cat tree, but I still woke to Pepper snoring away in my room.

Eventually I discovered the left side trick, so I moved the swim towel bucket to the left side, the cat tree on the right. That would solve it, I was sure. Of course, you’re sitting there thinking, what about the middle? How could you forget the middle? I’m going with sleep deprivation and sticking with it.

The last two nights she’s escaped by squeezing out the middle at the bottom. She must press at just the right angle to lift it enough to get out, yet not send the entire thing crashing down on her. Last night at 1:00AM, I added a kitchen chair. The entrance to the great room looks like some crazy movie where people are piling furniture across the doors to keep the zombies out.

I don’t like my odds. If I can’t keep one small, white, blind dog in the great room, how the hell am I ever going to survive a zombie apocalypse?