The pet that can’t be trusted…

Oh Chug the pug. You are in big trouble.

I fear you cannot be trusted.

I fear that you never could.

I should have known better when I left you alone with the guys last week. Alone in the little house with your couch and your fluffy blankets and your cats with no responsibility but to sleep and be so kind as to step outside, scratch on the door, bark, whine, something, when you had to poop.

But oh, you could not be bothered could you?

Between all of the lounging, snoring, snuggling, snarfing, sniffing and watching the boob tube,  you happened to find time to do things, wonderful things, that distracted you from your urgent bowel movements.

Like munch on a slipper or two…

…and a tube of Tough Actin’ Tanactin, wherever you happened to come across such a thing.

How was that for ya?

And then, you know, just to get the taste of fungal cream out of your mouth, husband’s remote control.

And then a highlighter for good measure. The one that was sitting innocently on the coffee table at a height that you would never exert yourself to reach if, you know, it was easier for me to just lift you on up there. But there must have been something so attractive about that neon marker.

Something that looked delicious.

Delicious like that full bottle of Coca Cola you found the time to gnaw the lid off of.

That was sure nice of you. You must have been so thirsty. I really do feel bad about that.

But not as bad as I feel about the fact that the toe of my favorite black pump is missing.

The black pump that was hidden away in the depths of my closet, because life choices have restricted pump wearing for me lately.

You must have had to really exert yourself on that one.

I hope you are not too tired.

This winter must really be rough on you, acting out like this.

And if this unruly, rebellious behavior is about the outfits:

The trapper hat.

The Santa suit.

To that I send my sincere apologies. But in my defense, humiliating you for my enjoyment was one of the main reasons I granted you the permission to enter this family in the first place, so you might as well get used to it.

You exist for my entertainment.

And cuddling.

But I’m mad at you right now so I’m going to need a bit of time.

Because it’s bad enough that you cannot be trusted.

Bad enough your nose squishes up like that.

Bad enough that your tail curls and the barrel that is your body finds its way in the space next to me, your paws work to unfold my protesting arms.

Bad enough that you are in big, big trouble mister.

And worse that, frankly, you just don’t care.