Why, Puppy, Why?

When you buy a rug for the house, an area rug, a nice one, so pretty and bright like a sunburst, you think of many things. Will the sunny rug compliment the room? As in, "Such a nice room, thanks for welcoming me. I've heard good things about you." Will the sunny rug complement the room? As in, "You complete me. And vice versa." Over the years, nearly 18, a life-affirming number we'll reach in November, the sunny rug has experienced great joy and endured plenty abuse. A wine spill. A clump of chopped liver. No biggie. Easily handled with a spritz of carpet spray. But what about the other offenses? I refer you to the possum poo poo. This we didn't anticipate. God willing, a one-time event. Our first pooch, Dusty, the late great Eccentric Elderly Pup, did his business on the sunny rug more times than I'd like to remember. But I always forgave him. Why? I'll tell you why. Because I'm a forgiver. Sir Blakey arrived youngish and spunky and house-trained. Longtime hubby and I have kvelled over the respect he's shown the sunny rug. We've over-praised him, as we tend to do when it comes to anyone we've raised, for not dumping on the sunny rug. This morning, however, his pristine record took a turn. This morning, the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage varmicked on the sunny rug, setting off a frantic scene, a rush for paper towels and carpet spray and queries of "Why, puppy, why?" Followed by the more empathetic, "Oh, no, puppy, are you okay?" His tale answered with a happy wag. Kina hora, poo poo poo, much like the possum kaka, his morning upchuck will be a one-time thing. But I'm keeping the paper towels nearby, just in case.