Last night, Christopher Robin and I went out to dinner with friends and returned to a couple of dogs who were distinctly guilty looking. Sasha sat right down and licked her lips in classic suck up style to illustrate she had nothing to do with it, no sirree, not her, not the GOOD dog. Jack, never a good liar, slumped around to the shadows on the other side of the couch, his shoulders hunched, chin skimming the floor.
"Uh-oh," I said.
The trash was knocked over. Debris scattered in party fashion from the kitchen to the living room, mostly really disgusting, too, since there were coffee grounds and fruit pieces in there. Anything remotely edible (including the Styrofoam meat tray they’d gone searching for) was gone, of course. I sighed–it was my fault, really, since I forgot to take it out before we left, and they are dogs, after all–and told them to go outside. They slumped through the dog door and waited until the coast was clear and the mess cleaned up before they drunkenly apologized, wiggling around my legs.
Well, that was that, but this morning, I couldn’t find the cooked chicken breast I took out of the freezer for the cat. Gone. It was in a "safe" place, way out of reach of two medium size dogs. But gone it was.
And when I looked out into the backyard to see if they’d taken the plastic bag out there, more of their revelries were scattered all over the lawn. They saw me looking and slid away, melting up stairs. I sighed again and went to find my outside shoes.
Gone. Absolutely disappeared.
Sasha is limping. Jack hasn’t moved off the couch all day. They’re hung over, that’s what it is. I think they had a big party while we were gone and had the neighbor dogs over the fence. A great Dane must have nabbed the chicken breast and they all feasted, and somebody was posing with my shoes and forgot to take them off when they went home.
All this glamour is hard to take, I’ll tell ya.