One for the movies

If I had the money, I’d start a brat camp for dogs—and “Griffon” would be my first recruit.
I’d give him a pack sack and $5, and send him to Siberia to live in a small tent on a mountain top, from which he would have to rappel 800 feet each morning to reach his dog dish.
I suppose you’ve guessed that I am just a tad red in the face over the latest chapter of canine capers at my house.
Let me begin by stressing that no animals were harmed in the making of this column—just to cover my behind in the face of “PETA” (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals).
I love my dog. However. . . .
It is beyond me how an animal with such a cute face can do such systematic large-scale damage to my stuff all by himself.
I know “Dot” wasn’t involved. She told me so by shifting her eyes in the direction of the young chap during the brief interrogation period that ensued after I tripped over what was left of my couch.
I’ll admit it. I should have learned my lesson some weeks ago when #3 daughter and I arrived home from work and school to the first major catastrophe that subsequently landed Griffon in his own “Daytime Land 2005.”
The doghouse outside—made just for him by “Mr. Fantastic” (pardon me, but I just saw the “Fantastic Four” at the movie theatre).
I’d always left my dogs indoors when I was away for the day. Dot was a gem for hours and I figured she would teach the same etiquette to “The Thing.”
Not a chance.
By last weekend, I’d magically forgotten that first criminal offence. Let’s see, we had: front molding chewed off the sofa, the shredded cover of a book, newspapers, a Kleenex box, and a petrified piece of wood I was going to sell on “Ebay,” plus a huge pee spot that had drained under the one-ton TV set (which took me 45 minutes to clean up).
And here I thought I’d give Griffon one more opportunity to redeem himself? What part of “dumb idea” didn’t I understand?
The only consolation I have from Griffon’s latest destruction campaign is that now I get new furniture.
When Peter, #3 daughter, and I arrived home from seeing the “Fantastic Four” on Monday night, totally convinced we were super heroes ourselves, our hopes for “a new and improved” Griffon were shattered.
He had eaten the legs off my love seat and dug into the sofa until he struck paydirt—spreading chunks of upholstery foam everywhere. Granted the old beater was destined for the dump, but I hadn’t exactly planned on doing that this particular day.
“Military school. That’s where you’re going!” was all Griffon heard from me as we cleaned up the mess. Or, should I say “Blah, blah, blah” was all he took in.
Who knows? He just looked up at me with those big, round, sorrowful eyes—the end of his tail quietly polishing the floor behind him.
Meanwhile, “Mr. Fantastic” pleaded the dog’s case to me, “The Human Torch,” as my temper reached 5,770 degrees Kelvin—the surface temperature of the sun.
Then #3 daughter (a.k.a. “Invisible Girl”) made her move, using her telekinetic powers to create a force field between me and the dog.
“Mom, it’s not Griffon’s fault. You left him in the house.”
On second thought, maybe I’ll go to Siberia.

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