0 S.L.D.

Approximately 20 minutes ago I walked upstairs to see what my stinky little dog, Zelda, was doing. (Zelda doesn't smell bad very often, or at least she doesn't to me, but I call her stinky nonetheless, with the added bonus being that it's a lot nicer to call her "stinky little dog" than "shi*** little dog" when she misbehaves, although I admit I've been known to use the latter term (of endearment?) under the appropriate circumstances.) 

Anyway, tonight, when the house became too quiet, I just knew she was up to something. And sure enough, before my feet hit the fourth step, she darted down the stairs past me, running, sliding, scampering, in the way she does only after she has committed a crime. It's like she thinks I cannot see her if she runs fast enough; she thinks she can get away so quickly that I'll never know she was there. 

Wrong, little lady. I'm on to your game.

And wouldn't you know, at the top of the stairs crumpled in a black ball I found my favorite t-shirt, which Zelda had taken upon herself to . . . redesign . . . with her teeth. (I think this is proof that if you watch enough episodes of Project Runway, like Zelda has with me, then you'll think you can design clothes, too.) Uh-huh, Zelda must think the open-shoulder concept is making a comeback this year because she chewed a large hole in one sleeve of the t-shirt. (Don't worry, I'm not so crazy as to actually wear the fashion my dog designs for me. Sadly, I've got to let this shirt go.)

Despite my sadness, I do have to give Zelda some credit because the hole is sort of heart-shaped, and if you squint your eyes a little, the hangy-down part looks the slightest bit like the Eiffel Tower. 

And yeah, I'm pretty sure that was intentional on her part. So what can I say? I mean, I love fabric and Paris, too. Like mother, like daughter dog, I guess.


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