I heard it before anyone else, obviously. That is what I do. I am the early warning system in this household, and frankly, I am not appreciated nearly enough for it.
The sound was unmistakable. Footsteps on the front path. Heavy ones. The kind that belong to someone carrying something. I launched myself off the sofa (gracefully, I should add) and hit the hallway floor running.
WOOF. WOOF WOOF WOOF.
“Poppy, it is just the delivery driver,” said Dad, not even looking up from his laptop. Just the delivery driver. JUST the delivery driver. As if a stranger approaching the house with an unidentified object is not exactly the kind of situation I was literally bred to handle.
The doorbell situation
The doorbell rang. I lost my mind. This is standard protocol. The doorbell is basically my personal alarm system, and when it goes off, I respond with everything I have got. Volume. Intensity. Commitment. I threw myself at the front door with the energy of a dog three times my size.
Dad got up. Finally. He stepped over me (rude) and opened the door a crack. I tried to squeeze through the gap because I needed to see the threat. I needed to assess. I needed to bark directly at the person responsible for this disturbance.
“Thanks, mate,” said Dad, taking the box. He closed the door before I even got a proper look at the delivery driver. This is a security breach and I will be filing a formal complaint.
The box
Dad put it on the kitchen table. Brown cardboard. Taped shut. Roughly the size of a small television or, more importantly, roughly the size of a box that could contain an enormous bag of treats.
I sat directly beneath the table and stared upward with maximum intensity. This is my interrogation technique. It has never failed to get results, mainly because humans find it impossible to ignore a small dog staring at them like they owe her money.
“It is not for you, Pops,” said Dad, pulling out a pair of scissors. Not for me. NOT FOR ME. Everything that comes into this house is potentially for me until proven otherwise. That is just basic household law.
He cut the tape. I stood on my back legs and hooked my front paws onto the edge of the table. I could smell cardboard. Plastic. Something vaguely chemical. And underneath all of that, the faintest hint of… what was that? I needed to get closer.
The investigation
Dad pulled out a white box. Then another white box. Then some bubble wrap, which I immediately wanted to pop with my teeth but was denied the opportunity. Then a black cable. Then a small instruction booklet that fell to the floor, which I claimed as mine before anyone could object.
“It is a new router,” said Dad, as if that explained anything.
I sniffed the instruction booklet thoroughly. It told me nothing useful. I dropped it and returned to my post beneath the table, where I could observe the unpacking from the optimal strategic position.
A new router. I have no idea what a router is, but I can confirm it smells boring and is not edible. I gave it a thorough nose inspection when Dad put it on the floor to untangle the cables, and I can report with full confidence that it is the most disappointing package I have ever investigated.
The aftermath
The empty box, however. That was a different story entirely.
Dad left it on the floor while he fiddled with cables behind the telly. I climbed inside. It was the perfect size. Cosy. Enclosed. Smelled of adventure and new electronics. I circled twice, lay down, and declared it my new bed.
“Poppy, you cannot live in a cardboard box.”
Watch me.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in that box. Dad tried to take it away twice. I growled. Not aggressively, just firmly. This was my box now. I had claimed it. The delivery driver had brought it specifically for me, and no amount of evidence to the contrary was going to change my mind.
By evening, I had chewed one corner into a more comfortable shape, redistributed the bubble wrap into a nest-like arrangement, and established the box as a permanent fixture of the living room. Dad sighed. Mum laughed. I slept like a queen.
The second delivery
The next morning, the doorbell went again. I had been stationed at the front window since approximately 6:47am, keeping watch for any suspicious activity on the street. A cat had crossed the road at seven. A jogger had gone past at half seven. Neither required intervention, but I logged them mentally.
When the delivery van pulled up, I went absolutely ballistic. Full volume. Maximum urgency. Dad came running this time, which was gratifying.
“It is just Amazon again, Poppy.”
Just Amazon. JUST Amazon. The same organisation that sent me my beautiful box yesterday? These people are clearly allies and I needed to greet this driver with the respect they deserved, which in my language means barking until they retreat to the safety of their van.
This package was smaller. A padded envelope. Dad opened it on the sofa and pulled out a phone case. A phone case. I sniffed it thoroughly and determined it was not food, not a toy, and not remotely interesting. I returned to my box in silent protest.
The moral of the story
Every package that arrives at this house is my business. I will bark at the delivery driver. I will inspect the contents. I will judge whether the purchase was worthwhile. And if the box is the right size, I will be keeping it, thank you very much.
Dad says I am dramatic. I say I am thorough. There is a difference.
Does your Lhasa lose it when a package arrives? Or are they more interested in the box than whatever is inside it? Tell us in the comments. I bet I am not the only one who has claimed a delivery box as a bed.
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