Written on Tuesday:
Trixie must be one pretty cute puppy, to still be alive and kicking after this afternoon. ;o)
I go into "her room" (dining room, minus the table, chairs, rug, and floor-dwelling decor) and see that there are. . . things waiting to be cleaned. Oh well! Such is the life of a puppy owner, etc., etc. With a philosophical sigh, I get to work.
I begin by consolidating her stuff-- toys and blankets-- into the non-messy corner (where she sleeps, and therefore where she never leaves a mess), because she has them strewn all over the place.
Her "stuff" includes her cardboard box, which was originally meant to be a place for her to sleep-- then turned into a barrier between her corner and the rest of the room-- and lately has been "repurposed" into a giant chew toy that she frequently drags into the middle of the room.
So, I go to move the box, only to make a gruesome discovery. Apparently there were other. . . things. . . waiting to be cleaned, before Trixie began dragging and pushing her box around the room. Things that have now been artistically smeared across both floor and box.
I summon Donald to come and occupy Trixie, because clearly this job has just edged up two or three notches on the Gross-O-Meter, and it will require my full attention. (Cleaning a huge mess with a puppy biting your ankles and trying to play with the mop and rag is not exactly efficient. It's not healthy for my blood pressure, either.)
I'll mercifully skip ahead a few paces (leaving the gory details to imagination). The box is on its way outside to the burn pile, and the floor is once again clean. (For the umpteenth time. I tell you, I'm wearing through the vinyl! Lately, if someone were to ask what "scent" I'm wearing [happens all the time, ha ha (g)], my answer would be "Lysol All-Purpose Cleaner", and my exercise equipment of choice is the Libman Wonder Mop.)
So Trixie is returned to her room. The first thing she does is make a new puddle!!
Grumbling, I go right back to cleaning, wondering what her next trick will be. I can't really complain too much, after all, as it is my job to house-train her, and so far I haven't done much toward that goal.
(By this time I've come to the conclusion that my mopping solution isn't quite as fresh as I'd like, but I try to strike while the puddle is new, to prevent the little darling from accidentally stepping in it and tracking it over the whole floor. I add "change mop water" to my mental to-do list, though. . .)
And then I see them. Chew marks on the windowsill. Both corners.
Utterly infuriating! After all the trouble I've taken to put up as much furniture protection as possible! After weeks of rushing in to check on every mysterious chewing sound I hear!
It's not exactly the first time she's turned her little demon teeth on the furniture (and one wall!!) of the room (not to mention us), but coming right on top of the other annoyances--!
Good grief, that's infuriating!
I just keep telling myself that one of these days she'll grow out of the biting and chewing stage. . . One of these days, she'll be well-behaved. . . And we'll have earned that well-behaved dog!
