A bitch ate my shoe

A bitch ate my shoe. She busted out of her locked crate yesterday using her own version of a one-inch punch, executed in some combination of blunt muzzle force and multi-paw assault. She tore through the house, collecting and mauling objects that caught her fancy. My favorite basic black heels and a kicky pair of studded oxblood heels. S’s Wacom stylus and ZBrush book. A feather pillow, fetched from the guest room to the living room, then discarded. The rampage concluded with an epic piss on the living room floor.

She may be cute, but she is a monster.

When we first adopted Petra, we thought that perhaps we wouldn’t crate her. We instead created a puppy zone in our small dining room, complete with toys, water, a bed, and training pads. This lasted all of a week. Petra can sail over barriers as high as five and a half feet, and by virtue of being a puppy, is driven to destroy.

That same impulse lies dormant in Banjo – now aged four – only to come unexpectedly to life when the opportunity presents itself. Sometimes he is a reluctant participant in Petra’s malfeasance. I’ve seen him look at me in deep concern from the other side of a tug-of-war Petra initiated with a t-shirt belonging to S.

What did he do while Petra sacked the house? Did he try in vain to stop her? Did he turn a blind eye? Or, most damning of all, was he an active participant? To date, he has not confessed, and the habitual gaze of approbation with which Killian regards both canines sheds no light on the issue.


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