My friendo was shopping for wedding dresses in Sacramento with her Mama and Grandma, and I was hopping on a MegaBus to join. I was in a rush, pulling the black and white leggings and long tan blouse I’d laid out the night before over me in a flash. I ushered the dogs into their hall alcove, and closed all doors so as to limit the scope of any destruction they’d attempt while I was out. The Uber that was taking me to the bus stop was waiting downstairs and already calling. I got downstairs, saw that the car was halfway down the block, and jogged down toward it.
As I sat down, I found the leather seats to be curiously cold. It was a fairly mild day outside and I thought to myself “I wonder why this car is so cold oh my sweet lord that leather is cold because it is touching my bare skin. My thoughts raced. How many people had seen me that way? Maybe my shirt had been long enough to cover the offending bald spot? Could I possibly change my pants in the back of this car without the driver noticing?
Lordt. Lordt. Lordt.
I decided I’d have to change right then and there. By way of distraction, I spoke very loudly to the driver, as if he’d be so surprised and taken with my voice, he wouldn’t be tempted to crane his neck around to see just what the hell I was doing in his back seat. I shuffled and squirmed, pulling up a pair of black and white chevron jeans (this was going to be a strange outfit – even for me). My head pressed back into the headrest as I arched forward. Damn my 5’11” frame- I could barely fit in the backseat without introducing gymnastics into the equation. All the while, I screamed about the weather and how I was running late or some other such nonsense. Shining and red-faced, I buttoned the fly of my blessed replacement pants, and panted quietly.
I took a second to regard the damage done to my leggings. I expected to find a rip; In my hurry to leave the house, I must have somehow managed to snag myself on… something. It didn’t make sense though; typically, crotch snags are not something that go unnoticed in post-pubescent humans, and I could recall no pleasant (or unpleasant) surprises that morning…
Through squinting eyes and disbelief, I was confronted with the truth. My pants were not ripped. They’d not been snagged.
They’d been consumed.
A large swath of fabric was simply missing. Little bite marks peppered the frayed edges of the massive whole.
My new dog. My new dog had eaten my pants. She didn’t bite at them. She didn’t take them in her mouth and shake them around gleefully. While I slept, she’d quietly snuck up onto the back of the futon in my room and made a meal out of the crotch of my favorite leggings.
The dog is a lesbian. I’ve since gone to clean her bed and found that she’d tucked away pairs of my undies to munch on as a midnight snack. My home is not nearly as messy as you might think. No, this bitch (factually accurate insult whatupp) is crafty. She’s learned to wiggle into my closet and jump into the hamper while I’m away. She’s raided a suitcase I was packingwhile I was in the other room for mere minutes.
Her hunger and cunning know no limit, only having been staved off lately by my waning wardrobe.
Thank God it’s skirt season.