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Satan ate our wall.

Satan being the dog. V's dog. Not mine. I would not tolerate a dog like this. It is, undeniably, the most destructive dog on the face of the planet. There is nothing off limits to the dog. There is nothing the dog won't try to destroy. The house and everything in it and around it seems to belong to the dog. We just happen to live amongst its belongings. I'm actually surprised I haven't woken up to the dog gnawing its way through my tibia.

The dog existed with V before I met him. Just as my girls existed with me before I met V. It seems only fair, as pointed out by V, that since I can keep the kids he can keep the dog.

I've pointed out that the kids haven't peed on the carpet, or puked on the floor, or eaten my most favorite pair of heels, or chewed through three couches (yes, three). V pointed out that they do mess up the bathroom with their make-up and hair ties and wet towels on the floor. I pointed out that I can make them clean it up, where as the dog just sits there with a smirk on its face watching the poor schmuck clean up doggie do.

The dog is naughty. The dog is destructive. I know this and yet the shenanigans this weekend still threw me over the edge.

V was gone all day Saturday installing carpet for a "friend" who wasn't really a friend of his at all, just someone his sister's husband was friends with, and therefore pushed into the category of "Don't Charge Me - We're Friends, Remember?" (I got to hear later about how much that job would've cost - should've cost! - anyone else. I got to hear about that a lot.)

I woke up by 8 - which is sad, because I used to be able to sleep until 10am easy, but not anymore, thanks to this watermelon attempting to bust through my abdomen. Dotter woke up around then, too. I spent the day washing laundry. Dotter spent the day running around with Satan, making beds for her to sleep on, throwing bones that were never brought back, running around in a game of doggie tag. The dog, in my estimation, received plenty of exercise and plenty of attention. Not to mention every time the washing machine drained the dog sprinted down the basement steps to bark ferociously at the opposing appliance.

Anyway, V was back by 4:30 just as Dotter and I were on our way out to Cheerleading Registration (for her; not me. I know you were wondering). V offered to go with since he hadn't seen us all day. We left at 4:50... registered, stopped at my mother's for about twenty minutes, ran to WalMart to get a skimmer for the pool (and a new raft that was on sale), visited the drive-thru at Taco Bell and made it back home by 6:30pm.

For the record, an hour and a half is plenty of time for a dog to chew through the wainscoting, destroy the base trim, chair rail, and trim around the door, get its teeth around the metal fire door to dent and scratch that, pull out insulation, start gnawing on the piano, and vomit.

V thinks this happened because the dog obviously didn't get enough attention throughout the day. (Can't wait until Cletus the Fetus appears, taking more precious one-on-one time away from the dog.) V also suggested we just wait until the dog dies before we fix up the house and everything it destroys. He estimates about 8 more years of life for the dog. I'm estimating 8 more weeks before I find myself residing in the state mental institution, rocking alone in the corner while mumbling "no bite... no bite... drop it... drop it..."


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