I Hate My Dog, and Other Lies

Absolutely adorable.
AFTER the walk, that is. 

Not walking the dog and doing something else: Another brilliant idea! Only thing is, it's a hazard to my life, and his. It's raining and I have stuff to do, so it seemed like a good idea to stay in. See, the playroom needs attention. It has fallen to rack and ruin while the rest of the house has remained neat as a pin. (Ahem.)  P.L.A.Y.R.O.O.M., btw, is short for "Plastic Litter Awaits Yonder Recycling, Or, Outrageous Mess." Think we can just lock the dog in a room and then peacefully clean? Yeah... not so much. He did get out to do his business, as they say, but he also wants his walk, and badly. To prevent Barking Dog from doing pretty much exactly what God designed dogs to do, and in so doing allow precious morning time to get stuff done, I let him join me in the room—normally an off-limits zone. Oh boy. 

A full report seems necessary so you have the facts. This way, when they put "Actually Did Like Dogs After All" on my epitaph, you can explain to the Crazy Dog People that I wasn't all that bad, really.  Here, some facts, to which I shall add some editorial, because that's what we newspeople do these days. I thusly present to you a factual list of what has been stolen and destroyed from the playroom this morning, and that I love him anyway: So true and unbiased I could practically post it on Facebook.

Rescued from Toby's Steely Jaws Today, Abridged:*
  • Five-pound weight, with handle. It's ok. I'm not using that anyway. (Right, so not exercising never had a thing to do with not having enough time, as it turns out.)
  • Tiny orange Ninja. We have a tiny orange Ninja? 
  • Little pink raccoon beanie boo. Twice.
  • Half a heel of Italian bread, with butter. (How long has that been there?) 
  • Cello tape, peeled off the floor but intercepted before eaten. That's fine; apparently I was never going to get around to doing it myself anyway. 
  • Little bottle of glue. Good, maybe that will keep his mouth closed. 
  • Empty baggie of Pirate's Booty. I will gladly put up with the thirty seconds of salt-licking bag crinkle to protect my sanity for said thirty seconds. 
  • GROSS!!!! What's that smell? No dog has a worse problem than ours, I assure you. I blame the Pirate Booty crumbs, or maybe the French bread.
  • Tiny cute little plastic golden retriever puppy. See, this is why we can't have nice things. 
  • Little purple horse harness: No one uses that horse anymore, anyway. ("MOMMY DON'T THROW THAT AWAY! THAT IS MY FAVORITE HORSE!!!!!")
  • Crumpled orange construction paper, pulled from trash. Why??? Why, dog, why?
  • Lord Fauntleroy's favorite, first stuffed animal, bought for him by his sister before he was born. It no longer has a nose. That one hurts.
  • Pig bone I bought and strategically hid on floor so Dog would find it and steal it like it was his idea: Ignored. My dog is actually smarter than me, or possibly vegan. That also hurts.
Do I love my doggie? Well.... There is no comedic value in unconditional love. (Please talk to my publicist for further information.)

Do I love seeing my kids love the doggie? Do I gladly forfeit my ability to breathe clearly, and embrace the opportunity to blow my nose incessantly and wipe my watery eyes every fifteen seconds, in order to see my kids hug their furry buddy? And do I often hug him too?

I think you can answer that. 

*Yes, I know these things are health hazards. That's why I'm cleaning the room. K??