When I got home from work my dog Brutus was sleeping peacefully in his crate. We don’t lock him in during the day anymore, since his desire to eat our furniture has abated. When he saw me he came out, wagged his tail, and waited patiently for me to open the back door. Brutus went out and watered my begonias, turned around, came back in and lay on the floor. Wow, what a great dog! I thought to myself. I am so lucky to have such a wonderful, sweet, well mannered dog, especially since I don’t have the energy to deal with a bad dog right now. I bet someday Brutus will save the baby from drowning, or alert us all to a fire, or tell me Timmy fell down the well just in time for Hugh Jackman to run in and save the day. (My mind is not well right now.)

Then I walked around the corner and right into the trail of chewed platic, half eaten styrofoam, bits of paper and God knows what else Brutus had dragged out of the trash can and strewn around the the first floor.

Stupid dog sure had me fooled. We should have just stuck with cats. I thought bitterly.

Until I got upstairs to find the cat had pooped on a pile of clean laundry.