Bad Dog, The Continuing Saga

I came home one day ast week to the sound of my dogs running down the stairs. Immediately, I knew something was wrong, before I even opened the front door.

I should never hear the rush of Italian Greyhound feet stumbling down the stairs as if every moment is a race for which the winner gets a pile of hotdogs. They should be securely locked in their crate until I come upstairs to let them out.

I opened the door to find this.

Apparently I forgot to lock the crate when I left that morning. Stinkin' dog got into the trash can and redecorated the house for me. Grr. And there he is, with the balls (not literally, 'cause, well...ya know) to sit in the middle of the mess like, "What's the big deal? It's not like I shredded a pile of trash all over your house. Oh wait, yes it is."

Actually, I was really grateful it wasn't worse. And really grateful we're potty training so there weren't any diapers for him to destroy, as that is a disgusting past time of his.

Dumb dog.

For better or worse, though, he's my dog.