We didn’t like that anyway.

Abbott w-me“We didn’t like that couch anyway,” my son said with the glazed look of a soldier recently returned from a violent front.  In our family that sentence is code.  It means:  The dog just ate x.

I was in bed reading.  I didn’t believe him at first.  Mostly because my son is joking  90% of the time, but also because I didn’t want to believe him.  Ever since we adopted Abbott we’ve had various casualties.  Initially his tastes ran toward media:  books, games, magazines,  DVD’s, and spiral notebooks (essentially, the homework).  He also likes pens and seems to strongly prefer the taste of Bibles.  At least he has good taste.  Candles, purses, socks, and the usual– shoes, are also on the menu.

Last night was his first foray into something soft and foamy– and expensive.    I lay in my bed, too cowardly even to survey the damage (but also because I thought seeing it would make sleep even less of a possibility).   To prove he wasn’t crying wolf, my son brought me a very asymmetric piece of yellow foam; he held it out to me like a gift.

Fine.  Abbott ate the couch.   But I still wasn’t going to go down there until I had a night of sleep.  There are two kinds of people when it comes to sleep:  some think they need more sleep when they’re overwhelmed, and some think an overwhelming  sortie is best faced with less rest and more prep.  I am definitely the former.  And did I mention I love sleep?   I also want to love my handsome new German Shepherd, my protection from would-be rapists and burglars, so I considered it prudent and proactive not to see him while wanting to kill him.

Visions of my once-cozy, book-lined family room as the ground zero of a foam explosion bullied through my troubled mind.  I saw in my future  a spartan room, all my precious stuff evicted by Abbott and his pile of abandoned dog bones and chew toys.  Eventually I fell asleep.  But not before my son came to me and asked, “Aren’t you going to say it?”

“What?”  I growled (no pun intended).

“You know.  That you didn’t like that couch anyway.”

He was fishing for a sign that Abbott wouldn’t be served for lunch tomorrow or be taken to the taxidermist (a threat I often made with our cat).

“No.  I’m not going to say it.”  I was firm.  Abbott had gone too far.

Luke made a petulant little grunt and retreated to his bed.   I considered how  fragile and transitory my stuff became the instant we brought Abbott home from the pound.  Rescuing Abbott put our possessions in danger.   But it was always like that with stuff.    My winking at the kids’ use of the couch for a trampoline or my pride at their nimbleness in climbing the hallway walls underscores my lukewarm relationship with my stuff.   I just got a pop quiz from Abbott, that’s all.

I didn’t really like that couch anyway.

Abbott & his couch
Abbott & his couch


8 thoughts on “We didn’t like that anyway.

  1. I empathize with you. Esther was a wonderful puppy but when she turned one she started attacking my possessions when we left the house – VHS tapes, remotes, DVD’s, stuffies. Thankfully no books. I didn’t lose it until she ate the certificate for a flag that that we had received which had been flown over military headquaters in Iraq – formerly Sadam’s palace. Since then she’s been locked up when we leave.

  2. Flo, I may have to go that road, but I hate to do it because I like her free at night to “guard” the house. It’s at night when she does her best destruction. I’m glad to hear I’m not alone in this though!

  3. I want to say that I *wish* manny would eat my basement sofa instead of running amuck through the neighborhood, BUT if he ate the sofa…I kind of like my sofa. I kind of like him too. It’s a toss up 🙂 I’m glad you guys have a sweet dog and I hope that he grows out of his habitual gnawing!

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