To the untrained eye, driving up to my house yesterday would look like any other day, but to me it was a disaster area in the making.
Both dogs were looking out (and barking from) an upstairs window.
The problem with this is that Ace is always crated when we are not home. ALWAYS. Our little pirate cannot be trusted on his own, so until he proves he has learned the rules, his ass is on lockdown when there are no people in the house.
I hate to admit it, but it’s my fault. Sophie asked to put him in his “house” (which involves a stinky/fabulous dog biscuit) before we left for school that morning. Fine. But in the few minutes of chaos that followed, I forgot to check that the latch was firmly in place. Any margin for error means the little guy will free himself and roam around the house looking for trouble like the marauder he is.
The paradox of Ace is that when we are home, he is a pure delight in every way. Not barky, very snuggly, gentle with babies, sweet with other animals. I absolutely love this dog.
BUT, he is also the emptier of trash cans, the chewer of toys and the havoc-wreaker of pantries. The latter is what I encountered yesterday. Every paper bag in the house strewn across the floor. A travel pack of tissues, shredded. A full, giant bag of dog treats, demolished. And the piece-de-resistance… an new bag of flaxseed meal, torn open and dragged across the room. Let me tell you, wet flaxseed meal on your floor is like glue. I could use it as plaster of paris, I tell you.
Oh yeah, and he pooped in the house. Twice.
Meanwhile, Martha is horrified, staying FAR from the crime scene. I know she did not participate in these shenanigans.
I think the cherry on the whole thing was his ridiculous gas. I couldn’t even sit next to him on the couch and had to time the contractions of his food baby so I wouldn’t have another turd on the floor to watch for. Sigh…