Tooks McBlogovich

So today two bad things happened, besides the sloppy remains of (Hurricane) Ernesto:

1) A mouse appeared in my apartment and it made me scream like a girl and swear very loudly and enlist the help of my neighbor, who despite being a woman, is far more of a man than I may ever be. Apparently, the mouse was living in my big lunchbox (Shenkel, you know the one.) The mouse refused to be apprehended and ran behind the stove. I bought a humane trap so that when I catch it and let it go, it will come back and continue to mock me.

2) Papi peed on the bed. Not his bed. Mine. I don't know why. I'm very upset. Not angry, but disappointed. It's like I caught him with drugs. I keep asking myself: Where did I go wrong in raising him? What did I do to make him so angry, or confused, or urinational? Where do we go from here? Those books on dog training that I read didn't mention this specific problem. He's pretty well housebroken; and if he were going to pee in the house, why wouldn't he just go on the carpet or something? I'm trying not to take it personally, but he made the effort to hop up on the bed and lay it down. Now that I think about it, it wasn't _my_ side of the bed he peed on....Hmmm.

So it's been a doozy. I'm contemplating hitting the hay on the early side in the hopes that the mouse finds his way into the trap tonight and Papi apologizes in the morning. Any consoling comments would be most welcome.

Feel sorry for me and my messy, mousy, pissy apartment with me,

TR