Nobody in my house will accept responsibility for the violence directed at this poor, snowy white stuffed dog. Even worse, nobody will take responsibility for the concurrent destruction of my Bobbi Brown lipstick. BOBBI BROWN, ladies. You feel me?
I go in search of the culprit and discover a potential suspect, who has holed up in a hideout, barricading himself inside.
I order the person of interest to come out and explain himself. There is no sound.
Circling the structure with catlike subtlety, I peer in through a hole in the wall. There he is, enjoying the sleep of the innocents. I’m remain unconvinced.
I’ll have to wait outside, lest he sneak out and make off in his getaway car. In the meantime, doggy is getting a bath on the “hot” cycle, with some bleach.
The prognosis for a good nap is excellent. The prognosis for a clean puppy is not good. The prognosis for my lipstick is too depressing for me to discuss right now.