As you may or may not know (or care), I have four dogs. BIG dogs -- an assortment of Dobermans, Shepherds, and a Great Dane. They like to chew stuff up, especially the Dane, who has a particular penchant for toilet paper. We discovered shortly after his arrival that we would no longer be able to keep toilet paper on the roll, as it was not safe from his razor sharp puppy teeth and insatiable puppy appetite. He loved to unroll it completely, dragging streamers downstairs and all through the house.
We soon learned to keep it on the back of the commode; and then, when he grew big enough to reach it there, we relocated it to the back of the bathroom sink. When that was no longer high enough, we had to put it on the very top of the windowsill next to the toilet. This necessitated an awkward maneuver after pooping -- sort of lifting up, legs together and cheeks clenched (lest an errant poo fall out on the floor) while reaching skyward to retrieve the toilet paper from its safe harbor. For some reason, I could never remember to take it down BEFORE having a seat.
We passed the first seven months of this dog's life in such a manner -- when keeping a dog of this size, you learn to make sacrifices. To an extent, his fascination with toilet paper waned over time. He is now MUCH more interested in paper towels, which we have to keep in a handy spot on top of the refrigerator.
So we have begun once again trying to keep the toilet paper on the roll, although we occasionally have to resort to putting it near the ceiling on the windowsill. Ben is now mostly content to merely bite into the toilet paper as it resides on the roll, sometimes unrolling it a bit to eat several sheets when the urge for a papery snack hits. He is particularly fond of new, freshly hung rolls. We have become accustomed to the sight of the half-mauled roll, and the inconvenience of scraping off small shredded pieces for wiping purposes has just become our way of life.
The other day a co-worker of Mr. Poonurse's stopped unexpectedly by to drop off some stuff from the office. He stood outside on the porch expectantly, waiting to be asked in. We are always reluctant to invite anyone inside, though, because it sends the dogs into an absolute frenzy. Imagine being greeted by a pack of seemingly vicious man-eating dogs, their lips curled back, slobbering and snapping, throwing themselves at the door with abandon. Intimidating, to say the least.
Mr. Poonurse stood guard at the door while I dragged each one down to the dog dungeon in the basement, where their crates are located. They HATE being crated, and do not go on their own free will. Pause here for a visual: Mr. Poonurse's well-dressed co-worker being treated to the sights and sounds of Mrs. Poonurse, clad in her usual torn jeans and sloppy dog hair-covered sweatshirt, dragging huge snarling, barking monsters away from the door inch by painful inch. Not pretty.
Once all dogs had one by one been dragged downstairs (accompanied by me hissing, "Come on, you FUCKERS," in a voice I hoped was not audible to our guest but was commanding enough to convince the dogs to move it), I locked them safely away, and the coast was clear for our guest to enter. I must say, he looked around very nervously. At this point, I don't believe he really wanted to stay very long anyway. The dogs had commenced an ungodly howling from the basement, so conversation was nearly impossible.
The Poonurse Guest then asked where the bathroom was. (I should have told him it was in the basement, in retrospect.) I gestured weakly down the hall, still exhausted after doing battle with the beasts.
Only after he entered the bathroom and closed the door did it hit me: where was the toilet paper? Was it perched out of sight on the tip-top of the windowsill, or was it hanging, shredded, on the roll? Either way would be very bad, very bad indeed, if the Guest had to drop a deuce. I imagined him unloading and then not being able to find the paper. Would he use his sock? Or just beat a hasty (if somewhat squishy) retreat from our lovely home?
I prayed that it was at least ON the roll, and not too mangled. It was bad enough that the Poonurse Guest would be treated to the sight of our dishes drying on the bathroom counter -- the pipes in the kitchen are permanently frozen, so all dish-washing activities take place in the bathroom for the duration of the winter. My fears were soon realized: he took a long time in there, which meant he was indisputably laying a log.
He emerged with a strange look on his face, and quickly said his goodbyes to Mr. Poonurse and I. I couldn't wait to dash into the bathroom/kitchen and see what had happened with the toilet paper.
It was on the roll. But it looked as though it had been chewed up by some sort of monstrous, toilet paper-eating animal. (Uh, which it had been.) The poor guy probably had to dig his nails under the shreds to try to peel off tiny little bits to wipe with. I wonder what he thought of our little family of man-eating dogs, dishes in the bathroom, and moist, mangled, chewed up toilet paper hanging proudly on the roll.
-- Poonurse
