That trust? Was misplaced.

Last night Sean, unbeknownst to me, decided to try leaving Finley out of his crate while we slept. I would have recommended against this, because I find it difficult to trust Finley's judgment as to what constitutes appropriate play with cats or what features are the hallmark of a good chew toy (red, rubbery, filled with peanut butter) vs what features are the hallmark of, say, dirty diapers (white, papery, filled with urine-soaked gel substance). I won't leave him alone for twenty minutes, let alone eight or nine hours.

Well, The Man thought it was a good idea, and since I was already sleeping, it was the perfect opportunity to fail to ask me my opinion. I'm sure if he had tried really hard, he could have pretended to ask me, and then pulled up a mental image where I made Spock eyebrows at him and asked if he had perhaps suffered some sort of head injury that he neglected to tell me about. (Which, I freely admit, is probably why he didn't ask me.)

And this is why, when we got up this morning, we found poop by the front door, urine in puddles across the living and dining rooms, the trash can upended and its contents, including chicken bones and broken glass, strewn across the kitchen floor, with certain choice morsels (dirty diapers, meat-scented styrofoam, veggie scraps) taken to the only clean spot left in the dining room and shredded into miniscule bits. Oh, and the cat scratching post/bed/toy upside down and in pieces on the kitchen floor.

I haven't laughed so hard since, oh, yesterday, at least. Hey, he didn't eat any walls or furniture, like SOME OTHER DOGS would have done when THEY were puppies. (Tuni, I'm looking in your direction!) (It's okay, baby, I hated that ugly sofa anyway.) Even so, I felt a bit like the parents in those 80s films where the parents go out of town and leave their kids at home, and the kids have a house party for about 800 of their closest friends, and destroy the house. At least in the films, the kids usually make an effort to clean up and hide their destruction. Not so with dogs. They're too busy being happily bloated with garbage to have a sense of shame about the whole thing.

The husband, on the other hand... *makes spock eyebrows in his direction*