Pot & Kettle

Irony, Wit, and the Mildly Absurd

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The Dog Ate My Underpants

Dogs eat things. This is dog-like behavior. Our dog has, on occasion, grabbed an errant sock and run about the house while the children chase him and yell, “No!” He pays them no mind. He is a dog. This is a game.

To say that this sort of canine tomfoolery constitutes “eating” something is a bit of an overstatement. More accurately, the dog chews. He steals, he runs, he munches a bit and sometimes destroys by way of chewing. The only thing he truly eats is food. Until yesterday.

It was then that the dog literally ate my underpants. I don’t know how. I don’t know when. He didn’t say. What he did do was vomit them up in his crate at four o’clock in the morning. 

From what I could tell, he consumed them whole. Boa constrictor style. The remains were mostly unidentifiable so I don’t know which of my unmentionables met their untimely demise in the jaws of our mutt.

There was no clear motive. Perhaps it seemed like a good idea at the time. Perhaps he was angry with me. Perhaps he was angry at my husband and decided to take it out on an innocent pair of ladies’ panties. We’ll never know. What I do know is this: I am more of a cat person.