The Floor is Flour

We ran out the other day to pick up Jackson’s snare and bells set, and we left the dogs inside. Now normally we’d let them chill outside, with a bowl of fresh water, and the door open to the sun porch, with the fan left on, just in case they get hot. Yeah, our dogs are spoiled like that. But we were in a bit of a hurry, so we just closed up all the doors upstairs, and left. The dogs stayed inside, which the doggy door on case they needed out.

We were only gone about two hours, and when we got home we were greeted by this:

I was the first one in and when a long gasp escaped my lips, Winnie ran outside. Duke stood there looking at me, no guilt in his face. And when Winnie finally came back in, we were met with this:

Not that we doubted for a second who the culprit was, it was nice to have the proof. She also had white paws, and clumps of flour all over her chin and chest because at some point she got thirsty, probably all the flour, and mixed water with the flour which, if you can imagine, was no fun to scrub off the floor.

So, what’s the point of this post? There isn’t one, unless to say that she’s still alive, but I thought for a split second about shipping her to a grandparent for a few weeks.

Don’t be a Winnie, y’all.

M.

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