"Arooo!" Bigears Flyin' stood in the doorway to my office that was blocked off by a flight of stairs and three apparently useless dog gates. His voice was laced with honey, but it was all wrong...like he'd gotten into the cabinet and eaten all the Honey Maid graham crackers. Again.

After spilling coffee on my phone, getting yesterday's table scraps out of the garbage, sitting his rear-end on a stack of student papers, and then escaping from the back yard so the cops had to come and tell us both what we already knew—my dog is an idiot—the last thing Bigears Flyin' needed to be doing was sneaking into my office.

Too bad for me he failed puppy class. Twice.

I gave him my usual. I scratched behind his ears, hoping he might go away and behave himself after that.

Fat chance. He rolled over on his back and stuck his stubby legs in the air and waved them around like beseeching gnomes. He doesn't even try to hide how much he wants me to rub his belly.

I am so much taller than he is. Like, he is really short, parodically short, and I am a tall woman. I've stopped wearing heels around him, but I still tower over him.

Probably because he's a basset hound.

Still, he has to look up at me through his ridiculous paws, big brown eyes drooping like they do. Also, he's drooling on my carpet. And on his own ears. 

What could I do, I get right down there with him and give him a belly rub.

He's so happy, he knocks my second cup of coffee all over the student papers he'd already sat on.

"Disaster morning" is quite an apt description.

I glance down at him, his silly little stubby paws still waving over his broad chest. The broad chest puts him at risk for bloat, which he got. I saved his life and it only cost $4000. But he has a face that a...long dog face lover would kill for, and the most hair of any short-haired dog I've ever seen. He sheds enough I could knit a new basset hound  on a daily basis just from the dust bunnies.

Fresh fucking doghair. That's what I call it.

I realize the shades are up and the next door neighbors--and their dog--could be watching my shameless display of affection for this ridiculous creature. They will know that rather than discipline Bigears Flyin' like any self-respecting pet owner who watches dog trainers whisper to animals on TV, I got down on the floor and whispered baby talk in his big floppy ear, all while he was in a room he wasn't even allowed to go in in the first place.

I can't help it, he's too cute, but I'm not going to do this all day. He could. He's insatiable. Tummy rubs 24/7. But I stand up. I can be strong

Our petting session is over, but he seems...unsatisfied. He looks at me reproachfully and writhes on the ground. Whatever. He's a spoiled dog, he's done hundreds of dollars of property damage this morning alone, and I'm late for work.

He stays quiet while I go downstairs to clean up his disastrous morning. Too quiet. Why is he so calm? As I am searching for hidden graham crackers in the sofa cushions, I keep wondering. Why the eerie silence? It's unnerving.

I should have known. When I get back from cleaning up the garbage, I find him in my closet. He's gotten into my underwear drawer—remember what I said about they're being suddenly tall?

He turns around and his mouth is overflowing with bits of black and scarlet lace.

That bastard basset has torn my La Perlas to shreds.