If You Were The Worst Dog III

Just finished disinfecting my office, Wilson.

What would you do if the girls failed to secure the latch on your crate last night?  Would you be a good dog, or something other than a good dog?  It could go either way, unless…they also failed to close the door to their room.  Then it would be unavoidable that you would go downstairs and crap in the master’s office.  I was downstairs having some midnight almonds when I discovered Wilson milling around in the dining room, unaccompanied.  I looked around at the time and found nothing untoward, so I didn’t kill him as I obviously should have done.  It was dark and I was tired (not so tired that I didn’t need a handful of delicious salted almonds) and I want want want to believe that Wilson is not the worst dog in the world.  But he is the worst dog.  I knew it before, I knew it during my late-night almond time, and now my office will never forget it.  There are some comic boxes on the floor in there, too, and I don’t see that he peed on any of them.  I need to check again, and check the rest of the house, for that matter, before I decide how he should die.  It’s the fault of Jenny and Reagan, and I know it, and that’s the real reason I haven’t killed Wilson yet.  He needs the crate.  He’s busted and he has to be cordoned off from his own evil.  I also refuse to kill him because that’s what he wants me to do.  A long life trapped in the fear-cuisinart that is his brain is a torture more monstrous than any I could devise.  If Dick Cheney knew about Wilson’s brain we would have won the war on terror a long time ago.