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Our boy Baron likes shoes. When he was much younger, he used to chew them to pieces. I still remember that fantastic pair of black mules I bought and he ate before I could even wear them (lesson learned). It was the last time I ever spent more than $30 on a pair of shoes without laces. Now, however, he is simply satisfied with cozying up with a shoe while he sleeps. My shoes, to be exact. To Baron, nothing compares to a mary jane in the "woobie" category. As long as there are no tell-tale tooth marks, and I don't have to hunt to hard for my zappatos, then I am happy to oblige his strange quirk. No so much with my underwear. I believe we finally came to an understanding about that.
One day late last fall, I stumbled out to the kitchen after a night of feeding the baby every two hours. I hadn't had a cup of java yet, so my mind was not working at its prime. You can imagine my alarm, then, when I looked out my kitchen window and saw this:
Stalkerish, no? We moved our pool table out to the patio earlier that year, and Baron found his way on top of it.
Say what you will about pit bulls. But I know their dirty little secret; they are bordering on the edge of a full-blown Lifetime movie plot. At least our boy is.
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