The phrase more often uttered in our home in the years Ruthie lived with us than any other? The dog did it.
My emergency media work pager was chewed to tiny un-recognizable bits and hidden underneath blankets in the dog crate? The dog did it.
Every last corner was chewed off of our kitchen cabinets, causing them to look like 2nd rate hack-sawn plywood? The dog did it.
The entire kitchen floor was covered with a brown, gastly-smelling, vile diarrhea-like substance? The dog did it.
Our brand-new upholstered couch is now missing an entire arm. An arm! The (expletive!) dog did it.
We were woken to warm urine, flooding our bed–at 2am. The dog did it.
Who ate a rubber-backed mat and had emergency surgery, staying in the doggie ICU for a week? The dog did it.
Where did all my blooming plants go? And the bark on the trees? AND the mulch? The dog did it.
Where’s my engagement ring? In the belly of the beast–for six days of poop scooping? The dog did it.
Who greeted me each day with love? The dog did it.
Who cleaned my floor so I didn’t have to? The dog did it.
Who has stolen our hearts? The dog did it.