The great bedroom massacre and peeing your pants, which doesn't seem like it would be related, but it (kind of) totally is

In case you didn't know this, Rooney is a natural born killer.

His ability to tear off the face of any stuffed animal and spill it's cottony innards to the floor in record breaking time is mesmerizing. And bitch please, he doesn't care if you got Prince Frances Pink Bear when you were seven, he is going to chew his nose off and rip his guts out through his face before you can even say but it was a Christmas present from Aunt Bea.

And because gutting animals is Rooney's new favorite thing to do, we've stopped buying him stuffed animals because for every plush squirrel that I bring home, I'm bending over to pick up cotton for WEEKS and how the hell do they even fit all that fluff in there in the first place this is INSANE?

That's why when I came home from work last week and saw white fluff strewn across my dining room floor, I was a little confused. Had he torn apart a pillow? I took stock of the dining room, and nothing seemed missing. I walked slowly into the living room, where cotton blanketed the floor. I rushed to the sofa. Had he pulled all the stuffing out of the cushions? Everything was in place. And then I opened the bedroom door.

Our hardwood floors were carpeted with white stuffing. And on top of our bed was the biggest pile of cotton I had ever seen. ROONEY HAD TORN APART OUR COMFORTER. Our bedroom looked like some sort of frat house foam party. Only it wasn't bubbles. And no one was having sex in the corner. And you probably wouldn't get herpes by touching the walls. And the only one who was naked was Rooney but that hardly counts because he's always naked. The sorry remains of our comforter was reduced to a tattered sheet. And there, in the center of it all, was Rooney, wagging his tail and wiggling with happiness.

Which, really, is pretty funny because who do you know that gets that excited on a daily basis? I'm talking I'm so excited I'm going to whine and squirm around in circles because if you don't touch me right now I'm probably going to pee all over your floor and I totally don't even care that it's brand new hardwood. And can you imagine getting all hyped up over ripping the shit out of something? Like really tore apart this huge thing and my gah wasn't that awesome when the seams split and that stuffing fecking exploded all over, let's put it in our mouths and drag it across the apartment? Maybe you got that excited when you were six and your parents got you in the car to go to the dentist by telling you they were taking the family to Disney World and everything was okay because peeing your pants was still pretty socially acceptable. Today, a good pants wetting usually makes for a relatively uncomfortable situation, and to make matters worse, the dentist doesn't even give you one of those cheap plastic toys for being in the No Cavity Club EVEN THOUGH you've STILL never had a cavity. I mean, where's my reward, dude? Total bullshit.

So no, I wasn't mad that Rooney had decimated a critical piece of our bedroom decor. And when B got home later that night, he was equally impressed with Rooney's diligence in making sure that every last piece of fluff was pulled from that once fluffy comforter, because it was a relatively small hole, so he really had to dig around in there, and that takes some patience. So come on, everyone. Tear some shit up. Apparently, it's very therapeutic. Or something.

P.S. On second thought, you should totally not tear your shit up because DID YOU KNOW COMFORTERS ARE LIKE $100? If that dog pulls this shit again he is fecking dead. And by dead I mean he'll get a stern talking to.

P.P.S. But letting loose and getting all excited is approved. Go ahead and pee your pants. Doing laundry is cheap. And I promise I won't tell anyone. It's cool, I do it all the time.

P.P.P.S. I don't really pee my pants all the time, but I have done it. Oh yes, I have done it. And if you say you haven't, I challenge you. And if you really haven't, well then I'd just like to know how. Tweet