Sophie is a goat.
No, no she’s not. She’s really a pit bull but considering all the stuff she eats–that’s not food–she has to have an ancient goat ancestor. Consider it a part of the fossil record yet undiscovered.
There was the time, she was about ten weeks old, when she ate part of a broken beer bottle to get to the remaining beer. Then there was the time she decided it would be a fab idea to eat six months of birth control. When I called her vet in an absolute panic and asked if Sophie was going to be OK, he told me she wouldn’t be having puppies for a while.
Her vet had a bit of a sense of humor.
Then there was the time when I made myself a birthday cake, left it in the middle of the stove while we went out to dinner, and came home to find my Pyrex dish on the floor, smashed into a million little pieces, and the cake completely gone.
I say ALL OF THIS to let you know that I know I should have known better. Still with me?
I made a pan of caramel. Like the stuff you buy at the store that comes wrapped in the little cyclophane packages? That stuff was a bitch to make but the end result was divine. And I kept making myself nauseous cause I just couldn’t say no to the caramel. So, yesterday, I resolved to cut the caramel up and store it away. And I got sidetracked. Part of the caramel was portioned out and the rest hung out on my marble slab for later.
Apparently, “later” meant until Sophie ate the whole thing.
She saved us eight pieces…cause they were on the back edge of the wax paper. You could see her claw marks on the paper where she had put her front feet on the counter.
Bad. Dog.
And I’m petty as shit cause that dog got sick. She puked her guts out. And I was all like, “That’s what you get, bitch!”<–said by a very indignant voice in my head.
Damn dog had the last laugh, though, when she defaced our area rug at some point in the night.
Cause THAT’S what I wanted to clean up at 0700.
Thanks for caring, Sophie.
