I noticed the fraying bits and groaned.
Ughhh.
Another power cord turns into just another found-object art piece … made possible by the natural talents of the artist’s sharp puppy teeth, working quickly against the momentary inattentiveness of whichever adult was in the room. Quite possibly me.
Ughhh.
I attached the wonky wire – now looking more like a gnarled, thorny vine – to my laptop, and it immediately started glowing with a satisfying orange light as electricity flowed.
The repair list gets one, the replace list gets nil, though the two inventories are currently racing neck and neck.
So far the tally includes two wicker baskets; three pairs of shoes, leaving all the right shoes unscathed; seventeen puppy pee pads, none of which had been soiled; four power cords, one for a vacuum cleaner; one for a cell phone, aforementioned lap top, and cord that came out of my favorite purple hoodie, which was still sad even though that cord only electrified me.
Deep breath. Take a deep breath. Just breathe.
Maybe it’s a gentle little reminder not to get attached to things.
“Ah, I had almost forgotten those days,” laughed our neighbor as we greeted each other over the fence to swap news of the day … and various vegetables, as neighbors tend to do. Neither of us could remember when their dog was as small, or as destructive, as ours. The kids, however, could pull all the receipts, starting with a kitchen table that had so much of its foot whittled away that it seemed to be a fido-feat that it was still standing at all, let alone level and sturdy.
One look … head cocked at a certain angle … a little whimper … and all is forgiven.
Though we know the blame is ours: we should retract the cords, or coil them up and put them away when not in use. We should confine the puppy to a crate or to a part of the room where he can be safe, and where things can be safe from him. It just takes a little more time, a little more effort, and a ton more resistance to his plaintive howls that such minor restrictions are causing him to suffer.
Horror upon horror that he should sleep alone. In his bed. Without us cuddling with him under the cozy blanket. Without him pushing us with his paws to the farthest edges.
He’s smarter than we are.
I suspect this, not only because we have fallen prey to his sad eyes and the adorable puppy prance he performs when he hasn’t seen us ALL minute, but also because he has never once destroyed, damaged, or even performed a non-invasive squeaker-ectomy on a single one of his toys. He will drag them through the house, toss them up in the air, and nibble them as if he’s grooming them for fauxfleas, all the while cranking every decibel possible from each squeaker and every piece of crinkle fabric hidden inside. Yet not one tuft of fluff will be harmed. Not even the tag.
But turn your head for long enough to listen to the sound of water boiling on the stove (watch pots), and somehow the toe loop on the left sandal you were still wearing is missing.
I am not unmoved by this memory still in its making. They are like the noseprints on the window glass in the bedroom … the ones the puppy covers with sniffs and light kisses… The ones I couldn’t bear to wash away this time a year ago. The sandals won’t harbor space in my memory the way these translucent smudges have held space in my heart.
