when good guard dogs go bad . . .

Here is Porter looking angelic on Sunday afternoon. Sunday night, he snuck downstairs in the wee hours of morning - he has figured out how to use his MOUTH on the doorknob and open the door to the bedroom - (looking for a snack? needing to potty and forgetting there's no dog door? wanting to catch a few star trek reruns?) and somehow shut himself in the spare room. I woke up to the sounds of urgent scratching and whining, woke B up, and we both spent a crazed next few minutes convinced that there was someone in the house who had kidnapped the dog, was holding him prisoner, and was coming for us next. So thanks for that, Portah.