Tonight when I got home from work, I walked in the door and was immediately greeted by this sight:
What the hell?
We’ve had Owen for almost a year now. Every day when I go to work, I gate him in the kitchen with his bed and a toy.
He has never, ever touched anything that does not belong to him. I’ve left him alone with slippers and leather shoes. I’ve even left a plate of muffins wrapped up on the counter. He hasn’t touched it.
I can leave him alone in my car with a bag of dog treats or groceries in the back while I run into the store. He doesn’t touch them.
He’s almost too good to be true.
Of course, technically, this did belong to him. I mean, it is his bed after all.
Was his bed, that is. Now it’s a heap of torn cloth and foam scraps.