And Another Shoe Bites the Dust...

Last night I snapped some pictures on my drive home from work.  They just put a new blacktop on top of the road and there are no markings on the road which is kind-of nice.  I don’t know why I think that, I just do.  This week has really flown by, but I still feel like it’s been a blur and as if I am in a daze. 

When I walked into the house there was a confetti substance all over the mudroom, through the kitchen, and scattered throughout the living room.  Dread washed over me as images of my clothing raced through my brain, trying to identify which article of clothing had been mutilated this time.  Simultaneously, Cope came walking up to me, slowly and cautiously as my eyes laid rest on his latest victim: my shoes.  My black, open-toed, sling backed Steve Madden (Yes, I realize they are not Jimmy Choos) shoes.  Shoe, actually.  Its mate had somehow escaped this massacre.  Now I know there are people who say not to punish a dog unless you catch them in the act of their crime.  I don’t believe that for a second because the very moment he saw me lay my eyes on this poor defenseless little shoe his tail went between his legs and he bee-lined it underneath the coffee table and right behind Matt’s chair.  I hadn’t even said a word yet.  I was just standing there gaping at what was once a shoe and now a medley of black and ivory confetti, in disbelief.  Instantly though, I was relieved because they weren’t my favorite dress shoes.  They were only my 3^rd favorite.  I’m not a shoe person, either. I love them, don’t’ get me wrong, but I don’t have 50 pairs of shoes.  I don’t think I even have 20 pairs of shoes.  I have enough to get me by.  With personality and fashion, too. 

Well, I spanked Cope, let him outside to do his business and grounded him to his kennel for a little while.  Guinness was disappointed his playmate couldn’t play and sat outside of Cope’s kennel until I started making dinner.   

After vacuuming up my shoe I embarked on making dinner.  Guinness helped.  I will post  the recipe for the Ham Loaves tomorrow.  I forgot my camera today and don’t have my pictures with me. 

When Matt got home he said, “What did you do to make him so mad???”  Silence.  What did I do to make Cope so mad?  Uh, I don’t know, feed him, let him out to do his business, pet him, scratch him, give him treats, take him for walks, rides, love him.  If he was a human version of a kid I would probably clothe him, too.  Matt thought this was a little bit funny.  He was sorry Cope had eaten yet another article of mine, but out of the pile of shoes, holey boots with pig and cow poop on them, he chooses my clean, classy, Steve Madden shoes.  I thought dogs were supposed to like smelly things.  And he has a raw hide as well as a bone to chew on.  I am left scratching my head on this one…

In any event, Guinness and I proceeded to make dinner. (That is his spot in the kitchen so he can help me cook).  The creamed spinach was a success.  I guess you can get a cowboy to eat anything as long as there is cream and cheese in it, right?  Just don’t tell them what they are eating.  Or, if they say they are not going to eat it then I do what my mother used to do: Tell them to get their own food, make it, and clean up after themselves.  That usually shuts them up right then and there.  It always did me, anyway.  But my mom is an excellent cook, so that never really happened anyway.  It would have though, had I been disrespectful like that.  Then I probably would have gotten walloped over the head by my mom…and then my dad.  That never really happened, either though because I must have learned to respect my parents at an early age.  I don’t believe you have to beat your kids into submission, but a thump over the head or butt every once in a while is sometimes just what the doctor ordered to keep your kids in line.  I don’t remember this happening to me.  Probably only had to happen once.  They nipped it in the butt before it got to be an issue.  Thanks, Mom and Dad.  Really.

Fast forward to bedtime.  It was about 10:30 or so, and I had just nodded off when I was suddenly awoken by a kerfuffle of paws, a wood floor, and Matt yelling at Cope.  I sat up in bed, somewhat in a daze.  It was almost like an out of body experience, really.  I could see what was going on around me but my body was unable to move, and I was initially unable to open my mouth.  Matt spanked Cope and put him back in his kennel.  I walked out, slowly and said, “What did he do now?”  Thinking he probably got into the trash.  “He ate another pair of your shoes.”  Matt replied.  Oh.  Wow, which pair of shoes was out?  I thought I only had the one pair out…Oh no, did he eat the shoes I wore today? Damn those were my last pair of solid black dress shoes.  That stupid dog.  Stupid me, for leaving them out. 

“Where are they?” I asked, desperately hoping that with a black permanent marker they might be salvageable (I’m on a budget, people and if you haven’t realized by now that I am somewhat delusional when I first wake up here’s another spoonful for you).  Then it happened.  Matt handed me my absolute favorite pair of shoes.  They looked something like this only all black with a cork heel.  And a checkered bowtie on the toe.  I don’t know if I was too tired to do anything, or if the massacre that had happened earlier had broken me in for this experience.  I just don’t know.  I looked at my shoe, disappointed and defeated, and went to bed.  That shoe, by the way, was put away on my shoe holder in my closet. 

This morning I was talking to my mom and telling her the story and she said she thought he was a little old to be chewing up shoes.  I agreed with her and told her that I wasn’t sure what I did to make him so mad…he never chews on Matt’s things.  My mother, matter-of-factly, said, “Well it’s probably because he loves you…they have your scent and smell on them…”  Then I had to laugh.  This whole time I had been thinking that this dog is really p-oed at me about something and my mom says it’s because he likes me.  I think I need a dog psychologist…What a terd.