Tatters & Shreds

The remains of what was once a moderately priced but perfectly good queen size bedspread lie in tatters and shreds all over the kitchen floor.  While I am struggling to understand how he managed to pull it out from between the bars of his kennel, the little dachshund trots to me, tail wagging violently, eyes shining with pride.  He can't quite decide whether to give me his I did it all by myself or the more familiar I know it looks bad but it's all circumstantial look.  He compromises with the deceptively casual I love you and thought you'd never get home look and to emphasize the point - and divert my attention - charges me at full speed just before enthusiastically falling on the floor and rolling onto his back, his little legs pumping like pistons, his tail fanned out and moving so fast that it's all a blur. 

I take note of the fact that there is not a single cat to be seen amid all this carnage and am not surprised. Toilet paper and unsuspecting paper towel rolls are much more their style.

The small brown dog peeks at me from behind a barricade of couch pillows, doing her best to appear innocent and uninvolved, but given away by a telltale chunk of stuffing snagged in her collar.  The black dog, a lifelong believer in the best defense being a good offense (I strongly suspect she's a closet republican), emerges from under the couch, crawling on her belly but still managing to give me a defiant stare despite the ragged strip of bedspread fabric draped over one ear.

I should be upset.
I should be angry.
I should be - at the very least - annoyed.

Well, I tell them resignedly, Considering I was only gone 45 minutes, I'd say this is pretty impressive work.

Hearing no reproach in my voice, all three bound my way, joyfully barking and running in frantic circles around my ankles.  Dozens of wayward little puffs of stuffing fly about randomly and the room begins to resemble a cartoon snowstorm.  Punishment would be futile, even if I had the heart it would be a useless gesture and they wouldn't make the connection, so there's no alternative except to join the game.  I set the brown paper bag of groceries on the counter, drop to the floor and am immediately set upon by cold, wet noses and warm, wiggly little bodies.

It takes another 45 minutes to clean up the disaster and restore order and only then do the cats deign to make an appearance.  Reserved and disdainful as only cats can be, they stroll in and begin an expectant and somewhat elegant dinner dance.

Tatters and shreds.  Just one more reminder that I'm nowhere near as in control as I like to think.