I cannot help it. I am a dog. I must do dog like things.
I must get plastic bags off the counter that contain the last of the homemade foccacia that the Alpha Male was saving for her afternoon snack.
I must barf up pieces of plastic from previously mentioned plastic bag in inconvenient places in the kitchen where they can easily be discovered when the Alpha Male steps in the puddle.
I must go in and out and in and out and in and out and in and out all day long because, surely, there is something new that I must sniff in the yard.
I know I do wrong.
I know that things on the counter and in the garbage are not meant for me.
But I am a dog.
And that is the way that I roll.