Disarming the Dog

When I discovered the puppy running around downstairs with a knife in his mouth, my first thought was to panic. My second was to suspect that if I looked closely, I'd see the fine hand of the little chihuahua behind it. My third was to disarm him. I took the last one first and coaxed him to me, snatched his collar, took hold of one end of the mangled handle and gently worked it away from him. It was a 3” serrated steak knife and I refused to let myself think about the harm it might've caused.

A knife? I say incredulously, Seriously?

He wiggles from nose to tail and bounds for the stairs in search of the next mischief, a trim little bundle of hardheaded, unstoppable energy with the attention span of a streak of lightning. I make a mental note to have a word with the chihuahua about reckless endangerment.