This is why we can't have nice things

This is why we can’t have nice things


I almost got out the door unscathed this time.

Two steps from the threshold and out bounds the dog through the dog door and up the stairs in my direction. All 75 pounds of her, a scampering mass of wiry hair and canine courage — to my delight, and sometimes consternation — she seems younger than her quickly advancing 10th year.

Before I can say ‘down,’ her paws are upon me, leaving behind perfect mud prints, a gift from the yard where she’s been digging.

I haven’t been able to leave the house without some form of dishevelment for a decade now.

Whether it be pet hair, paw prints, strawberry jam or coffee stains, it’s a foregone conclusion that /good /clothes in my closet are a magnet for catastrophe.

She sits down and wags her tail oblivious to my discontent, and I pat her head knowing the damage is done.

“OH! Why do you have to be such a DOG,” I growl as I race to the sink and try to undo the damage. “She THIS is why we can’t have nice things.”

In truth, however, I laugh at her antics, and wonder if she has any true dog-sense.

When she was a puppy, she had an uncanny knack for getting into all kinds of trouble I had previously thought would require opposable thumbs: opening doors with knobs and stealing fresh-baked goods from the stovetop without a sound, not even the tinkle of dog tags or the click of toenails.

Doting dog owner that I am, I even gave her an old pair of sneakers to chew to bits, kicking myself the whole time knowing I’d just given her the green light to chomp shoes. To my surprise, she stayed away. She seemed to know the difference between “hers” and “not hers.”

Of course there’s an occasional temptation that’s just too great to ignore.

Baby toys are in that category.

I had envisioned finding kidlet toys scattered all over the dog yard, when we first started bringing them home from the toy stores in anticipation of the impending arrival. I thought, if nothing else, a playpen would be as good a toy box as any other, and would be a good preventative for the resident thief.

But even here, she surprised me with her uncanny ability to know certain things were just off limits. We lowered our guard and put off picking up the disarray of playtime.

So it was somewhat shocking to find ittybit’s Fisher Price horse ripped to jagged shreds on the living room carpet. A no-no, we thought she knew better.

‘Oh! Why must you be such a DOG,’ I rant as the scoundrel sits and watches me collect the evidence, her tail wagging away.

This is the second Little People toy is as many days that has become a canine casualty, and one of dewdrop’s favorites.

“I’m sorry, boo,” I coo as the little dewdrop toddles over to look at her newly decapitated toy. “The dog made a mistake.”

She just looked up at me shrugged her shoulders, petting the suspect gently between the ears. … “Oh well.”