Had a Doberman once. Wasn’t my choice for a pet. The x-husband’s.
The dog was pretty good at getting into things. Cheeky too. Knew when to piss you off.
Certain things couldn’t be left on the floor in the early years. Shoes. Anything chewable.
Caught him one day in my son’s room. We went for a chase. I was in the middle of undressing from work. Shoes and nylons at that point.
I scrambled to catch him with the teddy. Cornered I thought. But the sliding wood floors caught me instead.
As I went down he skirted on. Into the bedroom.
While I reclaimed my dignity and continued the chase I caught him. Bedside. Nylons in mouth.
As my two arms perched for the strangle - he swallowed.
If looks could kill.
Should I tell my husband? Maybe he’ll puke it up I thought.
The following day - nothing.
A few days later I set out with the baby jogger. Son in seat. Dog on leash. We’re cruising Victoria’s seawall – Dallas Road.
All of a sudden we come to a screeching halt. Prince – the “dog” had to go.
Out came the nylons. Well not quite.
Like a farmer helping a cow with the birth of a calf. Regrettably I was forced to assist.
I have to say. Not the most gracious of public pet pooh poohs.