Our 11 month old Corgi Peaches decided to destroy our rug last week. I'm not sure how long it's been on her list of things to do. Perhaps the final catalyst was when the rug called her short, and pointed out that she lacked a tail (both true).
The rug is placed underneath our bed, but extends about 2 feet beyond the frame to provide a warm and stylish contrast to the wood floors upon which it rests. Peaches began her onslaught with the corner and only dug a few inches into it the first day. After all, Rome was not built in a day.
I came home and scolded her, knowing that she had no clue why I was yelling at her despite my best attempts to put her in the proximity of ground zero while I harangued her. It isn't a daily occurrence, but since this initial day she's gone back to war with the rug about 85% of the days she is left alone. As expected, the rug now looks considerably worse.
Whatever. It's an Ikea rug, we're about to move, and it's better she destroy it than the bed, cords, and other things in the room.
Yesterday we returned home to find she had dealt another blow to the rug. She is fiery, impulsive, an persistent and I imagine is determined to see this conflict to its thrilling conclusion. We cooked dinner, watched an episode of Modern Family, and went to sleep.
A brief segue; our apartment is ridiculously cold. It is winter in San Francisco (though, isn't it always?), our apartment lacks central heating, and the windows and walls were seemingly built with the intent to push warmth out onto the streets while embracing all cold air currents. To combat this, our bed is piled with three comforters. Alas, we still shiver.
Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Around 3 AM Beth placed her arm just to the left of her body (her left being the center of the bed as she was sleeping on her stomach). Just to the left, she found a cold, sticky pile of vomit. Peaches had herfed upon the crossroads where all three of our comforters intersected. It was a brilliant tactical maneuver and I'm sure Sun Tzu, Clausewitz, and Petraeus couldn't have been more proud. You see, her tummy was full of rug entrails and the chickens had come home to roost. On our bed. While we slept.
I cleaned the few dishes in the sink to make room for Beth to soak the infected portions of the comforters. I would have helped with the soaking, but it's not man's work. We would have washed them, but our peasant washing machines barely hold 2 t-shirts, much less a comforter.
I dinkled with my computer, shivering in my boxers while Peaches observed the work. To prevent the onset of hypothermia, Beth retrieved a fourth comforter from the basement. The existence of a fourth comforter left me bewildered, but thankful. We made the bed and slithered 'neath the covers to be greeted with a Dutch Oven aromatic assault. The fourth comforter had been in the basement for a year, and despite its sealed, plastic container it had wholeheartedly emulated the smell of a thousand senior citizens. Really, the only thing the odor was lacking was the overpowering scent of Listerine.
We sighed as Peaches snuggled perfectly between us. I fell asleep scratching the thick fur around her neck.