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Further Tales from the Rumpus Room

Mirrored from String Notes.

Trygvi poses with his five-day-old indestructible kevlar dog bed.

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Ain’t he cute?

I’ve been doing the early part of the holiday baking: fruitcake, so it can steep in brandy as long as possible. (Yes, I should have done this in November. Much like blogging, it didn’t happen.) The second batch had a loaf and three small stars in silicone pans. Trygvi is a known fruitcake thief*, so I was keeping an eye on him while they cooled.

Nick put the dog out on the run, so I got up to use the bathroom. Nick let him in as I was washing my hands, so there was maybe thirty seconds between the time the dog entered the house and I entered the kitchen to put away the fruitcake.

One loaf, two stars. Two stars?

TWO STARS.

TRYGVI!!

He was wedged all the way into the back corner of his crate with a nearly-empty small silicone pan. There was much yelling.

* Last year about this time, I asked Nick to put away the cooled fruitcakes so I could go to bed. He fell asleep instead, and I got up the next morning to find Trygvi uncrated, in the middle of the living room, surrounded by every hotpad we owned and the shreds of my fourth silicone star pan. The very clean shreds.

And then there’s the velocikittenraptors, who are both over eight pounds. They look so sweet!

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It’s fun to soak your toys in the water bowl, then play with them.

The roll of toilet paper is a toy.

You see where this is going… at least they didn’t leave that one in the bed.

I’ve made it impossible to steal the toilet paper, so they’ve moved on to socks. Clean, dirty, they don’t care. They all go in the water bowl.

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They’ve developed the feline artificial gravity field: it’s impossible to move if both of them are sitting on you, and dislodging even one is a serious struggle. Assuming of course you can overcome the emotional hurdle of moving such a relaxed creature.

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Comments

He looks so sad and innocent locked up in his crate.

Is there a guarantee on the bed? Something that says "indestructible"?
There is a guarantee: that photo is my evidence of destruction.
I shouldn't laugh. Really. I shouldn't.
...

Hem. Sorry for the mess.
You should laugh. It's funny!

Except when there's a sopping wet toy in the bed at 3am: that's not funny for several hours.