My Dog, Roscoe, Describes How He Would Have Eaten My Socks and Got Into the Trash—If He Had.
I don't know how the wire-mesh trash can under your desk got knocked over or how the wax paper in it smeared with remnants of the donuts you had for "breakfast" this morning while checking your email got chewed up and strewn around the rug. A rug that is way on the other side of the room, I might add. As to the relative merits of those donuts as a morning meal, the less said the better. Tasty, yes, but not nearly as filling as you'd expect them to be and not the sort of thing you should start the day with. That's why I — if I had — would have waited until at least almost noon to tip over the trash can which, by the way, is so much easier when it's filled to overflowing, the way you routinely leave it. The thing was about to fall over by itself. The slightest breeze could have done it. All I would have needed to do — if I had done anything — would be gently nudge it with my nose and wait for the crash. Which would have been surprisingly loud. If I'd been anywhere near it at the time. Which I wasn't.
In regards the socks, T-shirt and shorts tossed carelessly on the bedroom floor when you left for work Monday, after wearing them all weekend without showering and that gave off a potpourri of Old Spice, cigars and your scent... I cannot begin to fathom how you justify believing I had anything to do with rolling around on, then gnawing them. When you came in Monday evening I was waiting by the front door like always — you saw me there, remember? You almost fell over me — while the items in question were in the bedroom all the way at the back of the apartment! Hello! Do I have an evil twin now? Is there a dog around here that looks just like me but with a goatee? I don't see one.
This may sound like I'm trying to pass the buck, and the last thing I want to do is blame the victim, although you seem pretty quick to point fingers. We could debate all night who, exactly, is at fault here and for what. You have to admit that leaving such temptations out in the open for anyone — whomever it might have been — to get at so easily is kind of asking for it. I realize that you're still angry and don't want to talk about this anymore. Fine. Neither do I. What's done is done. Let's not dwell on the past. It isn't healthy. Let's just put this incident — unpleasant as it is — behind us and get me outside where I can pee on stuff.
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