Good taste in books

The large dog, Atticus, has a best friend. It’s not a chihuahua. No, they won’t allow it. It’s Tilly, the half-sized golden retriever that lives with our friends Greg and Heather. Once she stayed overnight and the two canine numbskulls woke up at 3 am to wrestle. For the rest of the night. Nobody slept. The chihuas were crabby. Sue was crabby. I was out of town.

We left Atticus and Tilly at the house a few times, unsupervised by humans. We didn’t know Tilly had such refined taste for hardcover books. Later, I learned she ate her mama’s brand new Madonna art book, even before she had a chance to read it. The day she got it.

One day, I came home to find the two had masticated two apropos books:

1.     What Pete Ate, from A to Z, (Really!), by Maira Kalman

2.     Swallow: Foreign Bodies, Their Ingestion, Inspiration and the Curious Doctor Who Extracted Them, by my friend Mary Cappello

They also chewed the edges of The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill, a world atlas, P. Allen’s Smith’s Garden, Cousteau’s Whales, and two coffee table books of gorgeous historic plant art called Flora and The Pressed Plant. Finally, they branched out to gnaw a Anne Lamott paperback that belonged to our neighbors.

I think they had a good time.

If we compare this to chihua carnage, George has unraveled zippers out of two expensive sleeping bags, has gnawed breathing holes in various comforters, and generally shredded one soft fleece that must have felt awesome on her gums over and over and over. It looks like Swiss cheese, and I threw it out so Tiny Dog would not get her head trapped like she did one scary moment in the duvet. I can’t even talk about it. I almost vomited seeing her neck stuck, flailing. I got her out, somehow, and then sewed those apertures shut, which were there to help you guide the comforter into the duvet corners. Her head is that tiny.

Wren is a good girl, never shreds anything besides her stuffed toys. Though once I caught her absent-mindedly nibbling the corner of the already chewed Flora. Wren!, I said, Wren, what the hell? She looked at me, and realized what she did. Total chihua brain lapse. I am not sure what got into her. The scent of others’ slobber?