Yesterday, I found myself trying to get inside my dog’s head — a dark and perplexing place — I don’t recommend it.

Our supposedly very intelligent Labrador-Retriever cross has decided that she cannot come up the porch stairs. She can go down the stairs just fine. Coming back up, oooh big problem.

Down stairs. Good.

Up stairs. Bad.

?????

Now, I’ve deduced with my Holmesian powers of deduction that what must have happened is this: during our epic cold winter (it was cold for the West Coast dammit, so just you never mind) there was some black ice on the stairs. She must have fallen from one of the lower stairs when she was coming up. So, now in her mind, the stairs really are just fine for going down, but they do not work if you are climbing back up.

So, this is how I found myself standing at the top of the porch stairs calling in a winning voice. She just batted her soulful brown eyes at me and lifted her ears in a “but why don’t you just open the basement door and let me in?” way. I remained resolute. This dog was going to get over this hang up if it killed me–and I’m NOT bringing in the Dog Whisperer. I left her favourite toys at the top of the stairs. Nothing doing. Just more pathetic whimpering. Finally, I resorted to getting the week-old cold cuts out of the meat drawer (why is meat drawer so much fun to say?) and placed one on each step…just…out…of…reach. And it STILL took 1/2 hour of pleading and whining (from the dog, I was rolling my eyes and summoning family members to watch) and futile attempts to try to s…t…r…e…t…c…h her tongue just enough to get that tantalizing black forest ham off of the stairs. She would go back to her starting position and start valiantly, casually even. Here I am, going up the stairs. La, la, la, la, la. But always at the three-step mark she’d lose her nerve. Back down, go to the starting position. Repeat.

It took 1/2 an hour for her to finally decide that she believed in black forest ham more than her own demise at the hand of the EVIL up stairs. (Remember, the down stairs are just fine).

By that time, we’d all left her for more interesting occupations and it was only the sound of her toenails clicking overhead that alerted us to her ham-induced bravery.

A dark and perplexing place I tell you.

But, it got me to wishing that I had my equivalent of week-old cold cuts that could entice me to give up my most cherished fears.

Maybe that’s why I keep opening the fridge. It must be in here somewhere. My talisman, my bravery crystal, it’s right here in this tub of dill pickle dip.

Yes, as it turns out my own mind is an equally dark and perplexing place.

Want more dog brains? Go here.

Now tell me. Do you have a bravery ham? Is there something that you use to motivate yourself to do the really scary stuff. Does it work?