Imelda's Doghouse

My dog, Hope keeps swiping my shoes and I have a theory as to why. I think it’s resentment over my refusal to buy her any shoes of her own. Now, I have two children to buy shoes for and blessedly, they only have two feet each. This makes buying shoes a much more reasonable proposition than buying shoes for them plus Hope who, like most dogs, has four feet. If I'd wanted to buy that many shoes, I'd have had two more kids.

Not only would buying Hope shoes blow my budget, I would have to find shoes designed to fit those four ugly paws she has. And I'd have to take her shopping where we'd have the issue of her prima donna, Imelda attitude and her constant flip-flops (sorry) over whether the shoes on her back feet should match the shoes on her front or if she should go for two different styles.  If Hope thinks she’s so smart, she should impress me by asking for just one pair and then learning to walk on her hind feet.

Sometimes Hope doesn’t flat out steal my shoes; sometimes she just “borrows” them. Case in point: when she "borrowed" my sandals and had that picture up there taken at Glamour Shots. And we still don’t know how she got to the studio because Hope can’t drive with shoes on.

But anyway, back to the swiping issue. Whenever the kids or I come home and let her out of her crate, she springs out, woofing and howling in what she expects us to believe is delight over our safe return. And I fell for that canine con-job for a while, but have come to suspect it is actually a release of pent up anger over having spent the day in the clink combined with her rotten attitude about the whole shoes thing. 

And she wouldn't have to spend the day in the clink if she hadn't chewed up the sofa when we were at the movies one night. Granted, it wasn't the newest sofa, and it was plaid. Maybe Hope's not Scottish - or maybe she hates plaid. Anyway, as she’s running around like this, feigning happiness, she darts into my room, grabs one of my shoes in her mouth and dashes around the apartment with it, stopping every few seconds to give it a little chomp.

Despite my best efforts to snatch back the shoe or to remember to just keep the bedroom door shut, I now have at least five half pairs of shoes. I didn’t think there was any such thing as a half pair of anything, but now I know there is; there are half pairs of shoes. And where she’s stashed the missing shoes is a complete and utter mystery. I’ve looked under the bed, behind the chewed-up plaid sofa, and even in my closet which with Hope’s lack of opposable thumbs you’d think would be off-limits. Maybe the cat let her in.

I don’t know, I suppose Hope could be right. Maybe I should buy her some shoes. Maybe if I do, my missing ones will mysteriously reappear the next morning, with telltale doggie drool still drying. 

No, on second thought, I refuse to be bullied by a dog who, if it weren't for me would still be at the pound cooling her unclad heels.

Hope, hear this: I’m mad as heck and I’m not going to take it anymore. I want my shoes back now and I want you to ixnay on the “orrowing-bay.” 

Chew on that, why don't you?