DIANA REPUBLIC

I grew up with dogs, lots of dogs. First was Max, then Missy, then Lily, Dobbie, JB and Newsboy. Later came Annie, Copper, Cougar and Jenny to name just some. Seriously there were many dogs. And each time one of my furry brothers or sisters spent quality tooth-time with one of my treasures be it a block, a Barbie or a boot and I wailed to my parents, I heard the same refrain. “It is not insert dog’s name here‘s fault. You shouldn’t have left your mangled possession where he or she could get at it.”

I still live by those words and I really do my best to be certain that anything that means something to me is out of canine reach. And when a possession falls prey to a pooch, I usually move past it by scolding myself for its placement. I also provide a cornucopia of approved chew toys:

That said, I may have underestimated Goose’s animosity towards throw pillows:

And I was unaware that  he had developed a taste for leather or maybe it was cashmere:

But I have my limits and these are just a few of the canine casualties of Goose’s puppyhood. The good news is that each time my blood pressure begins to rise and I contemplate calling a parental help line, this is what is looking back at me:

And seriously who could be angry at that face?