It’s My House

It’s Sunday evening, and I had a really good day. Top shelf. I was just taking my third full line of clothes in to fold and feeling generally grateful that spring seems to have finally arrived in this corner of the world, when I looked over at the dog just in time to watch him pee all over his bed.

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I took it outside to strip the cover off and assess the damage. Apologies to anyone who might have been out enjoying a barbecue and had to listen to me shout and swear and stomp my feet.

The bed was a hand-me-down from my mother, so it’s not like I paid for it. And needless to say, I won’t be buying anything to replace it. He has other soft things to sleep on, but this bed is ruined.

The stuffing is toast and the cover is now in the washer. I’ll see if I can stuff it with something else. It’s not a disaster.

It bothers me how much I let this kind of thing get to me. Like, doesn’t the dog know I’m not allowed to buy anything? Why doesn’t he respect his belongings? Why can’t he see that I’m trying to make this a nice home for the whole family? Doesn’t he read my blog?

Dogs like the smell of their own pee though, right? Maybe that’s his contribution. Maybe it’s how he shows his appreciation.

“Mom, I see you. Nice job you’re doing. Here’s a present for you. Namaste.”

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