the Rabid Beast's prey

The Rabid Beast is un-systematically going through all of my worldly possessions.  And the Man’s for that fact.  As diligent as I repeatedly demand we be, we aren’t.  We are the overweight mall security officers that fall asleep in front of a wall of closed-circuit camera monitors.  Because diligence is tiring.  And boring.  And it’s so much more fun to discover recently devoured personal belongings.

These are some of his latest victims.  I don’t understand the dog-hate-shoe thing.  Is it a complex?  Are shoes a canine’s worst enemy, are they born nemesis’?  The perplexing issue with the Rabid Beast is his preference for heeled shoes.  High heeled shoes.  MY high heeled shoes.  I leave my sneakers out all the time, the Man leaves his sneakers out.  They show mild damage.  Like he maybe nibbled on them.  Tasted the leather and said “No thanks.”  But a pair of heels, hell yea.  It’s a problem because I like high heels too.  And I rarely wear anything but.  So if he starts gnawing through my stash, I will sell him.  To buy more high heels.  And wear them with the confidence that is only afforded to women without the threat of canine destruction.

He’s gone through countless emery boards – those little lady nail files.  I’m a lady.  I file my nails.  I don’t know how he finds my emery boards but he does.  And they aren’t effective with little teeth holes.  And, insult to injury, they haven’t made his little sharp chompers any less dull.  Meaning they still hurt like hell when he attacks my fingers, which is daily.  He destroyed one of the Man’s posters.  Came home to a closet blanketed in tiny little pieces of poster paper.  This weekend he came tearing out of the bedroom, wrapping paper in mouth, the remaining roll dancing in the wind of his little puppy run.  He chewed the wooden beads off the strings on one of my hoodies.  Paper towels rolls are common floor coverings in the house.  Bottles of nail polish.  Books.  Gizmo.  Look at the hell that was unleashed on poor Gizmo.  You should have seen the Rabid Beast.  Gizmo in mouth, running around, chew chew chew, run around, chew chew chew.  Hell hath no fury like the Rabid Beast on a stuffed animal.  He chewed Gizmo's arm off.  And some of his fur.  He’s already gotten to some of our other stuffed animals.  Explanation: we don’t make it a habit of surrounding ourselves with stuffed animal toys.  They were fond friends from our youth.  Fond friends that are no more. 

It doesn’t matter what toys we get the dog.  Everlasting dog treat dispensing toy – he doesn’t care.  Chocolate/bacon/regular-flavored nylabones – nah.  Kong full of puppy foam or treats – only distracts him long enough to lick the contents out.  HE DOESN’T EVEN CHEW ON THE KONG.  What is wrong with him?  There is nothing more appealing to the Rabid Beast than materialistic items I have purchased for my own enjoyment.  Damn dog.

At least he's handsome.