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On Sunday it was raining [again] so I allowed Fluffy to stay in the house. Stupid me, though, forgot to shut the back door completely. I now have proof that although Shmogg & Fluff are, at most times, mortal enemies, they'll gang up on me when they want to. Shmogg knows how to open sliding doors & windows [that aren't latched], but doesn't have the strength to open the back door. Fluffy has no idea about doors, but has brute strength. There I was on the computer, typing out "Family" when I heard...nothing. This is a bad thing as it means someone is doing something naughty. Chewing, scratching, clawing, hissing, yowling, gnawing, growling, barking, yelping, galloping and general pandemonium is normal, but silence is spooky. I got creeped out and called for Fluffy, making sure she was ruining something cheap and replacable. She trotted into the computer room, and gave me the obligitory jump & lick. A paw landed on my neck, and it was wet and muddy. Ewwww. But at least my neck is easily washable. Carpet isn't.
There are now doggy foot prints that lead from the computer room, through the hall, and into the loungeroom. Near the back door, on what was a lovely pale minty green carpet, is the biggest mud stain anyone is ever likely to see. At the edges, one can distinguish individual doggy footprints, but the centre was one big mess. Amongst the mud, there was shredded toilet paper, the mortal remains of my rubber insoles of my joggers, a small amount of stained cat litter and various bits of vegetable matter, which used to be my beloved garden. Fluffy looked proudly upon her chaos, and looked to Mummy for approval. Shmoggleberry pretended to look innocent by washing furiously under his "Fluffy's too big to reach me now" chair.
There were no distiguishable cat prints in the muck, so I can only assume although Shmogg had helped Fluffy open the door, he took no part mud and muck Fluffy was delighting in, and scarpered back to his Fluffy-free retreat well before Fluffy had decided to come back in to re-decorate. You could see him smirking in sweet revenge as I scolded Fluffy and dragged her off to the bathroom for one of those terrible dunkings the humans call "baths". Yes, the cat was well pleased that he had managed to get the humans to inflict the worse possible thing on Fluffy - the water torture - although I don't think he realises that Fluffy doesn't care one hoot whether she is wet or dry or muddy or whatever, providing she can lick my face. Water is worse than death, according to cats, whereas me having to bend over Fluffy to soap her just gives her further oppurtunities to lick me. The soap and indiginity factor are irrelevent to a dog.
So now Fluffy has destroyed the carpet, all of our shoes, many many rolls of toilet paper, the plants outside, the lawn, the garden, my knitting, the wooden furniture, several particularly loved books and what was left of our sanity and social lives, we've renamed her. I've finally got to name her in the spirit of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer, even though when we first got her, Joel wouldn't dream of it. From now on, Fluffy will be referred to as "Fluffy: Destroyer Of Worlds".
Editor's note:
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