I was out of town but scheduled to come home that evening. I got a call.
“Don’t kill the dog,” my husband said.
The Dog was a four-month-old Golden Retriever named Cassie. And she was too cute to kill.
“What did she do?”
“She ate the coffee table.”
Sure enough, she’d chewed the corner right the heck off. Gone.
A month later, she met me at the back door after work, her nose coated in powder like the most adorable little coke addict. I went looking and found the mayhem right next to the front door. She’d chewed a hole through paint and drywall, exposed the stud and electrical conduit, and pulled out a healthy pile of insulation.
Then there was the time she completely dismantled a pile of magazines and the bottom row of books off the bookshelf, leaving nothing but one-inch-square pieces of paper in a soggy tantrum that covered the entire living room.
God, I loved that little snot.