Feeling: amused
Listening to: --
Reading/Watching: John Adams, part 3

I will be the first to admit that I probably love my dogs more than they deserve.

After all, the first memorable thing Andante did as a baby, after snuggling against my heartbeat and chasing me from room to room, whimpering when I walked away, was hop off the bed in the middle of the night, go into the closet, and vomit twelve pounds of foulness onto my shoes and clothing. I'm not sure how he managed twelve pounds when his entire body only weighed ten, but trust me on this. He then excused himself to the living room, and repeated the offense all over my DVDs.

Since then he's learned a little better (with the help of kicking the nasty stomach bug that rendered him so sleepy and skinny as an infant). Now he's just the beast that wanders into the guest bathroom to shred toilet paper, and when the door slowly swings shut behind him and traps him in the dark, he whimpers quietly and sheepishly until I let him out again. The days of destruction are (for the most part) over. He will never shred my remote controls, comic books, or stuffed animals again. He uses his powers for Good.

Then I got Dolce, who fooled me (again) by being skinny, sick, and injured, shivering and wet during a rainstorm at school. She stayed properly lovey and docile until I got her home, gave her pain meds and food, and let her sleep a night on warm dry towels. From then on she became a walking catastrophe. Shoes, socks, trash cans, sofa pillows, fine lingerie... nothing was safe. She is now housebroken and will usually stay away from laundry unless there are no chew toys present.

Today, my dogs must have known that I plan to drop them off with babysitters for a few days while the floor is being re-done. Today, they plotted their revenge. Today, they swerved to the Dark Side.

Just since waking up this morning, I have discovered the metal hook to one bra strap (the other of the pair was still sitting on top of the dresser; I turned to Dolce, shaking the remaining metal fragment, and literally shouted "HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS?!"). I have found a chewed-open bottle of body oil, which Dante then rolled in, so that he is greasy, damp, and smells of ylang-ylang. I discovered that the dirty old love seat in the garage has a huge hole ripped into the back, so that Dolce can climb into it and claim it as her personal fort.

But still, I love them. I tried to let them sleep on my bed with me, since Dante has the beginnings of what seems to be hip dysplasia, but that's proving to be far too annoying (especially if I want company). I bought him a huge, fancy, orthopedic cushion for his kennel, so he won't whimper pathetically while he's in there. It's full of foam, not fluff, so he probably wouldn't enjoy de-stuffing it as much as previous, cheaper victims. I laid it out for him, using Happy Voice and coaxing him to lie on it, and he got so excited that he ran around the room, overheated himself, and went to drink fifty gallons of water from his dish.

Dolce began investigating the cushion, and decided it was much better suited for her kennel, so snagged a corner in her teeth and attempted to drag it. Luckily it's too big for her, so she didn't get far before Dante ran back, plopped himself on top of it, and branded it his forever by vomiting up all fifty gallons of water on it.

...Yeah. I love my dogs. Even if I have to say it through gritted teeth.

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