This morning, my young human Jamie went out to the “killing fields” to play paintball. Mom calls it the “killing fields” because it is so hot and dusty out there, it reminds her of Death Valley. She packed Jamie lots of Gatorade, and off they went in Zeus. Mom said she’d be back in about half an hour Human Standard Time.
It wasn’t my fault that the chatty squirrel was in the yard.
I watched it, and it teased me, flicking its bushy tail and clacking at me with its busy teeth.
Since I couldn’t get to it, I went on a mini rampage in the house instead. I knocked over the trash, strew it all about the floor, jumped on the counter, and smashed Mom’s antique sugar bowl. Glass shards flew everywhere. I decided not to stay in the kitchen.
I went back to the couch and decided to take a nap. Suddenly, I heard the garage door open. Uh oh. I stayed glued to the spot. Mom came in and I heard a sharp intake of breath. Then, the dreaded words: “YOU’RE A BAD DOG!” I didn’t move a hair. Mom put me in the crate where I lay, shamed and miserable, until she had all the glass, trash, and sugar cleaned up. Then she took the garbage out to the bins and came back and let me out.
Mom’s giving me the cold shoulder right now and she didn’t share her snack.
Oh, the shame of it! I blame the squirrel.
Woof! Love, Maggie