When Jamie and I get ready in the morning, Finnegan lies just at the intersection of the bathroom and the bedroom, so that he can flick his eyes back and forth to monitor our ablutions and arrangements, without having to work too hard to maintain a doleful visage. (And though Jamie insists that the latter is a function of pedigree rather than disposition, I remain suspect.) Weekends, in the current canine conception, are the Sunday and Monday when Daddy tends to work at home for a few hours. That hasn’t been the case lately. Vengeance was his.
He really has been very good. Our sofas and tables, while heavily drooled upon, have never been chewed. But over the last few weeks he has been gradually ratcheting up the shred-while-you’re-gone strategy. It started innocuously enough: an errant paper towel, a neighborhood flier, my pay stub. Now he is in his electronics phase. It began with a Netflix CD a week and a half back. And then this. It may not be obvious, but the picture is of what was once the remote for our cable box. Luckily, the batteries remain outside the dog. I suspect some of that plastic got swallowed; I just have to hope it makes it back out the other end. There may be no punishment that can match his own shame.