Please tell me I am not this dense

On the way to the pet store to bring Booker home (Yes, I know that is one of the worst ways to get a pet. Yes, I also know that Missouri is one of the worst states in the Union for puppy mills. I learned all these things after bringing the cute little [and unbelievably expensive] wiener dog home as an incredibly indulgent graduation gift to myself.), we stopped at Wal-Mart and bought two baby blankets (more of a loose-knit blanket than the flannel receiving blanket kind you’re thinking of) to put in his kennel. Since that time (nearly seven and a half years ago now), I can’t remember a day when I didn’t have to put those blankets back into his kennel at night because he had drug them out at some point during the day. (And the blankets have held up remarkably well, only a few largish holes, after serving as makeshift tugs during this entire time.) Could it be that Booker hates the blankets, and he and I have been locked in some sort of blanket back-and-forth for years, with me none the wiser? Until today?

I posited this theory with Tim a minute ago and he laughed, saying, ‘Maybe that’s why Booker pees on everything. Maybe he’s like, ‘Lady, if you would just get rid of the damn blankets, I wouldn’t have to pee on everything!’

It’s worth a try, I guess, but now I’m kind of attached to the blankets…