Last night Charlie the Evil Beagle-Terrier broke one of my brand new mixing bowls while foraging in the dishwasher. He can open the machine by himself, whereupon he stands on the horizontal surface of its door, licking tasty morsels and occasionally using his mad skills to drag a melamine bowl or mixing spoon out of the rack and into his crate for less public rapture. I never even got to use the bowls; they were a Mother’s Day present that had just arrived and I was giving them a preliminary cleaning.
This morning we awoke to discover that one of the cats had “mistaken” the woven throw on the living room couch for a litter box. There is an actual litter box in the house, it is perfectly presentable, but apparently the “hand wash only” throw was singing that siren song that says “use me, big kitty!” Who hand washes a four by ten woven throw?!
This afternoon I discovered that while we were at school this morning pleading with a truly terrible teacher on behalf of our son, making the sales pitch of the century (“he loves his grandparents! Babies! Kittens!”) He was walking around with “PUSSY” written on his right shin, in red Sharpie. His defense? “Dennis wrote it.” Apparently, during the time it took Dennis to find a Sharpie, hold the leg still and write five large letters, Sam was unconscious or experiencing an episode of selective mutism.
After these three strikes I am hoping to be “out,” possibly by myself on an island with no other inhabitants save Alan Rickman equipped with preternatural skills in the areas of fishing, hut construction and fire building. And a flask.