The dog has the habit of placing her gnawed up bones right in the middle of every room, in exactly the spot where I might go walking through. I swear she spends hours trotting around the house, observing our traffic patterns and plotting out her bone placement.
The path to the bathroom in the middle of every night is especially treacherous – a veritable no man’s land – and becomes the scene of many stubbed toes, bruised tender arches and sudden midnight outbursts of cursing. MYtoes, feet and cursing, most specifically.
After all, the dog wants to make sure I know that she is really in charge.