03 August 2010

Go To Your Chimney.

Goya still sleeps in his pen. This pen is in our fireplace.
As much as I would love to have a little spot for my dog that wasn't a cell, you never know when his little wizzer is gonna strike. No amount of trust changes the fact that once or twice a year, he writes a letter to us in pee.
For instance, two days after Kyra left for Texas, he filled the front pocket of her backpack with a pint of urine; when I was pregnant, he pee'd a sonnet into's Chuckie's side of the bed; he pee'd on Shaina's new couch and pillow. As I'm writing this I'm realizing the isolation of these incidences and thinking maybe I should just trust my pug. The peeing seems to be out of love. After all, the little pug appears to be on my side. He hasn't pee'd on my or Miles' anything... yet.
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