Dear Dogs,
I realize you have a reputation to uphold. After all, you don’t sleep 15 hours a day just because you’ve got nothing to do. (Oh, wait; yes you do.) The spastic hyperactive crazed dog fit that comes in the twenty minutes it takes me to drive to the store for kibble, hamburger, and Pine Sol is the perfect opportunity to use all that energy you’ve stored up sleeping on my grandmother’s hand-sewn comforter.
The sound of the deadbolt slamming into place in the back door and the pathetic wheeze of my ten-year-old oil-burner valiantly attempting another run at the hill at the end of our driveway is exactly the incentive you need to leave your cozy nest and mount an assault on the trash can that leaves my kitchen resembling the remains of the Bin Laden compound after Seal Team Six came through. The only thing missing is the news team recording misinformation for the masses.
I understand that the Iditarod is run by teams of sled dogs that work with such precision that a single wrong step can throw the whole team off, but those puppies are sock puppets compared to the destruction a pair of Labradors can instigate during a fifteen minute absentee-owner break. If there are mass destruction world records to break, you can’t live with yourselves another second without sliding down the hall on your blubber-filled butts and shattering them like Lalique crystal on a brick floor.
I also realize you are trying to make a point. To the best of your tiny sesame seed-sized recollection, you’ve been nothing but good and true ever since the incident with the television remote. Since you have no sense of time, it’s hard to explain to you that the vet trip for that little snackfest ended just last night. And the one for the pantyhose ingestion drama is still front page news. So even though you’re rallying against oppression, I have to insist that you stay out of the coffee grounds, drop the banana peel, and back away from the scented soap.
And while you’re at it, stay out of the kitty litter. There’s some things that give you breath that even Irish Spring can’t erase.
Besides, a goatee made out of Fresh Step just looks silly.
Love,
Mom
5 comments:
*nods knowingly at fellow Lab mama*
Coffee grounds, egg shells, banana peels, empty meat packaging, yogurt containers -- it seems that the trash can is like that giant machine at Walmart, and the dogs are trying to get the prize. Good thing we love cleaning our kitchen floors (HA!).
Oh, yeah, "We live to mop." That's our motto. I should get these guys those bedroom shoes that mop the floor.
From my Mom, when I forwarded your post to her:
"What a funny,, talented lady. Thanks for sending. She paints a picture that is akin to an actual photograph. Love you, Mom."
Way to go, Amy!
Love ya,
Linda and Birdie Puggins
Oh, lawds, I know this well. I'm also a fellow lab mom- black and yellow. The black 'un has been in treatment for bone cancer, so she has basically decided this gives her free reign over every piece of furniture in the house. And really, I guess it kind of has. But oh, my. The hair.
Linda, you have a wonderful Mom. No wonder you turned out so well!
Colby - Okay, tell me if I'm wrong. They Never. Stop. Shedding. And they double the efforts come Spring.
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