The Dog Who Stole the Rake

I set the rake down for ten seconds. That was the window. Ten seconds while I tied off a bag and carried the bucket to the next zone.

When I turned around, the rake was gone.

She was on the patio with it. A fifty-pound pit mix sitting on the rake handle like it was a park bench, looking at me with an expression that clearly communicated: this is mine now. We both know it.

The negotiation

I walked toward her. She did not move. I crouched down to seem less threatening. She did not move. I tried the casual approach, looking away while slowly reaching for the handle. She put her paw on it.

So I tried the treat. I keep a few in the vest pocket for exactly these kinds of negotiations. She watched the treat, looked at the rake, looked at the treat again, and then made her choice.

She ate the treat and stayed on the rake.

The resolution

I finished the rest of the yard with just bags and gloves. No rake. It was slower and less thorough, but I was not going to wrestle a pit bull for a garden tool in a customer's yard at 8am on a Wednesday.

When I walked toward the gate to leave, she got up, walked the rake to the center of the yard, dropped it in the gravel, and went back to the patio. Transaction complete.

The homeowner's security camera caught the whole thing. She texted the video that night with: is this why my yard looks different in the corners?

The route file now says: do not set rake on ground. Hold at all times. She is waiting.

She is always waiting.