Dear Goddamned Beagle,
You’ve had some bad ideas in the past. Last night, for instance, when the Things and She Things were putting dinner on the table as I finished up a work email. I called out, “What’s that noise? Is somebody eating already?” The She Things ran into the dining room. I heard, “Nellie, NO!” I heard glasses falling, liquid splashing, silverware cascading off the table. I heard, “Oh my GOD, isn’t that hot?” as Thing 2 ran in. I was not far behind.
You were leaping off the table, scarfing down steaming hot, two-inch chunks of grilled zucchini. The pieces you’d knocked off the plate were painful to pick up, the heat was so intense. It had to hurt – I know it hurt as you semi-choked on the molten slabs of steam-filled side dish. I saw you gulp down three. You drunk-walked to your bed and lay down, clearly in pain, clearly without regret.
You’ve gotten stuck in a chain link fence chasing a squirrel. You’ve tipped a thirteen gallon kitchen trash can over on yourself, unable to escape until I lifted it off of you. Coffee grounds came out of your ears for days.
Today, when I heard coins, or perhaps a belt tumbling around in the laundry room, all seemed normal until I remembered there was no laundry being done. It turns out your nails sound a lot like coins when they’re hitting the inside drum of a dryer.
No, beagle. Just no. Trust me, this is not something you want to further explore. I’m not sure who left the door ajar enough for you to pry it all the way open. The same person, I guess, who left the mop head and a cleaning rag in it. Thanks, by the way, for taking those out.
But beagle, this could end very badly. I ask very little of you. You pretty much do what you want, and god knows I don’t train you. But I’m going to have to put my foot down on this one and insist you stay out of the dryer, and, in fact, all appliances that can close and turn on.
None of us are under warrantee any more.