Crime And (Puppy) Punishment

I am sorely tempted to give back my dog, Sophia Eleanora, to my boyfriend.  I know she was a heartfelt and oh-so-loving gift to mark and celebrate my recovery from cancer but after this morning, I’m seriously considering doing, as the toddler set would say, taker-backers on this dog or at least challenging the official return policy.  This is because this morning, I found my living room, normally a frankly pristine place to hang out, carpeted in feathers.  Feathers, feathers everywhere, ankle deep and over a very large area so you don’t need to have a Beautiful Mind to do the math and figure out that’s a whole lot of feathers.

Note to self: upon threat of returning said dog, do not buy any more feather-stuffed designer pillows from Ikea.  I do not know what I was thinking actually.  Though at the time it never occurred to me that the dog and her evil wingdog, Maximus, were going to play tug of war in the wee hours of the morning and kill an innocent decorative home accent.  May HGTV forgive me, but this is not how I wish to spend my pre-coffee mornings.   

Feathers are difficult to clean up and I should know, this is not the first time I’ve had to deal with Explosive Feathers attacking the home front.  Years ago, I came home to find two dogs that (both since deceased but from old age, not my feather-fueled wrath) had callously murdered my expensive, pure white down queen-sized comforter.  I found this out because feathers were actually floating down the staircase, in mid-air, on some silent tiny household air current.  “Oh look mommy,” my young daughter said at the time, “Fairies!”  They did indeed look like tiny fairies sparkling like iridescent snowflakes on shafts of early evening sunlight until I followed the mysterious path up to my bedroom and saw two dogs sitting in my doorway and the cat wedged between them, an odd and unique sight to behold.

All I can say is that the first time around, nobody was talking or ratting anyone else out.  It was like they were all in a line up and nobody was going to be the snitch.  It took me hours to clean up the mess.  

This morning was a bit better, the two seriously guilty canine criminals never tried to deny their crime. Instead they reveled in it, capering and cavorting about which is to say they were running around like some perps from a scene gone bad from the TV show Cops, barking and jumping excitedly.  “Look mom!  Look!  See what we did?  See?  See?  Do you see all the feathers?”Somebody hand me the paw cuffs, please.   

My daughter, whose family is temporarily living with me while their home loan is being approved, woke up to hearing me fairly yell, “OH MY GOD,” about fifteen hundred times before getting up, squinting in the morning light at the feathery Chernobyl-esque disaster that lay at the foot of the stairs before shrugging and going back to bed.  I am sure she immediately called her loan officer to try and find out how much longer she was going to be stuck cohabiting with her Looney-bin mother.    

This morning’s new age feathers, however, did not resemble fairies.  I picked up what I could, swept up another mountain of feathers and then calmly waited for my daughter to come downstairs and sure enough, as I sipped my morning caffeine and relished the relative solitude of my feather-less bedroom, I could hear the roar of the vacuum cleaner from Down Under. Thank you, Mr. Kirby. 

By the time I calmed down, inhaled some coffee and dressed for work, my daughter and son-in-law had already handed down a verdict worthy of a vicious Vizsla: kenneling every night; your basic solitary confinement for (night) life to a dog.  As my family’s Supremely Supreme Court Justice, I was not in the mood to consider any appeals, I will tell you that much.  There will be no last minute stay of execution on this punishment, nor any lame governor’s pardons.  I am nothing if not the Texas version of domestic doggy justice in my house.  In California, dogs could appeal for the next ten years to some liberal pure-bred Welsh Springer Spaniel Circuit Court Judge and this with only a court-appointed run-of-the-mill German Short Haired Pointer lawyer to represent them.  My take on canine crimes of this magnitude is very Texas and downright Pit Bull however so No Appeals.  

At the very least, at least one of these canines, (the one that was not a gift to celebrate my besting cancer) is getting exiled to the Siberia of the West coast; Tracy, California.  No wait, that’s actually Lodi or maybe Modesto.  Anyway, at least one of the guilty is going to be moving to Tracy with his branch of the family and hopefully my dog can appeal and negotiate a reduction in sentence at that time.  I will get her the best Bichon Frise legal representation dog biscuits can buy because everyone knows how well fluffy Bichon Frises do with juries. The boyfriend, of course, has not been remotely supportive.

“There is absolutely no forensics evidence to implicate Sophie in this feathery felony,” Bob pronounced solemnly when I calmly and rationally instructed him to come get his dog even though he is thousands of miles away in Virginia right now and working.  What, I asked testily, are you suddenly Gil Grissom from CSI?  I am allowed to ask that question went he goes all forensic on me because the boyfriend is actually a dead ringer for the actor that played that character, somebody named William Petersen.  It took Bob and me about five years to figure out why total strangers in airports and hotels often yell out, “Mrs. Petersen! Mrs. Grissom!” at me.  They do this, all the while waving frantically at me.  We finally realized they did this because Bob bears a striking resemblance to the actor.  Though of course, Bob is much younger, and hotter.  I am bound by the International Geneva Girlfriend-Boyfriend Pact of 1836 to state that fact.

I assume the real Mrs. Peterson is not bound by IGGBP of 1836 the way I am.

“You need to look into WHY the pillow was murdered,” Bob added.  “Clearly, there was no Pomeranian premeditation.”

Thus, Bob went on and on; Mastiff means, Maltese motive, Otter hound opportunity…the mind boggles, clearly.  Bob is somehow thinking that this is all doggy dialogue is very humorous and therefore really good for my continued recovery.  Bob is mistaken.

Like Marsha Clark, I take umbrage to this whole sorted mess. Meanwhile, since Bob is clearly not coming to take back the heinous hound any time soon, I’m locking up all the pillows.

The guilty remain firmly under house arrest.