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Life’s little bitch

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24 March 2009
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Today the dog ate half a pizza while our backs were turned.

The Little Bitch

The Little Bitch

We left two pizzas on the stovetop, pushed far back against the wall, where we thought she couldn’t get to it. Somehow, through sheer ingenuity or tenacity, she managed to pull half of one off the stove and onto the floor. We caught her red-faced (literally) after she swallowed down 2 slices.

This dog is constantly pushing our buttons. She knows what the boundaries are, and she is always testing them, probing for weaknesses in our defense, calculating our demise behind her mismatched eyes. It is a perpetual contest of wills when it comes to the little one. I imagine that’s what parenting a teenager is like.

The Little Devil

The Little Devil

The trouble with this dog is that we’re never home long enough to reinforce the rules. She knows she is not allowed in the kitchen, save for when we pass through to the carport outside. For the most part, she understands this and will wait patiently while we navigate the daily food rituals. However, during the day when we’re out at work, who knows what she’s doing in there.

The dog is not allowed on the furniture. No bed, no couch, no chair. There are times I come home to find the dog lazing comfortably in her kennel, as innocent as you please, but a quick inspection of my bed covers reveals enough dog hair to nest a weaver bird. It’s gotten to the point where we have to close the bedroom door and put laundry baskets on all the cushions before we leave for work.

The Little Imp

The Little Imp

In the aftermath of this pizza mis-adventure, Little Miss Mischief was forced onto the treadmill to work off her sins. I said that she’d stay on it until she puked up her pizza. That didn’t happen.

Some have mentioned that I have a terrible mean streak when it comes to stuff like this. They say they feel sorry for my kids, if I ever have any. I don’t mind this. If my kids ever screw up, they’ll be joining the damn dog on the treadmill, too.

I figure, I’ll either have the fattest little angels on the island, or the world’s healthiest ragamuffins.

Article #516 by CancerMan on 24 March 2009 @ 21:04
This article categorically filed under Fear the Life, Fear the Photos
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