Kleenex Hunters

My dogs think that they are hunters. I know that they are really very small, very spoiled, practically worthless (except Mama loves them beyond reason), chubby little mounds of do-nothing but in their minds . . . they are . . .

HUNTERS

We have many run-ins with the hunters. Just last week, Buster decided to gun down a chicken bone in the wild.

Darla is the queen of stealing food out of bags without even rustling the paper. She is professional. She is the gold medalist.

But, really it needs to stop. These dogs are well fed and have many expensive toys to play with. They have stacks of chew flips. They have each other. I find myself telling Buster, "Go jump on your sister!" Because that is preferable to doing what I just had to do.

Spend an hour looking for all the scraps of used Kleenex that were shredded and spread all over my house.

On the floor. Behind the toilet. Under the kitchen table. Underneath the couch cushions. IN MY BED.

USED KLEENEX. Like snotty.

I am sure in dogworld that is like waving a red flag in front of their face or basting it in meat juice.

Damn gross-ass dogs.