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These little hairy varmint critters beat all I've ever seen. Just when I think I've seen it all, and I figure it's time to sell the puter because there's nothing more to say about them, they come up with something new.
Take this morning -- Please! -- I got up early and took Mac out for his morning constitutional, which consisted of his going around and sniffing the residue of previous constitutionals. He seemed inclined to fritter away the morning. I became inclined to let him try later.
When Patty and I hit the door for me to take her to work, we told Mac to "Stay!" whereupon he beat us to the door and was halfway down the stairs before we managed to yell him back into the apartment.
Ten minutes later I was back, sans madam, and the first thing that caught my eye was Willoughby lying stretched out in the middle of the living room floor, one paw pointed accusingly at a big dog turd. On our new carpet. Just in case I might have missed the undeniable proof of Mac's sin, Willoughby then leaped to his feet and began vigorously pawing at the carpet next to the odoriferous artifact, as if he were trying innocently to cover his friends transgression rather than blatantly whistling and pointing to make sure I saw it.
Mac was cowering under the bed and refusing to acknowledge my not-very-tender exhortations to come out from under that bed and take his rolled-up-newspaper whomping like a. . .
Editor's note:
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