Dixie

A few months back my adorable wife talked me into purchasing an almost equally adorable little puppy. We named her Dixie. I figured every southern boy ought to own at least one animal named after that most noblest of contradictions, and if I was gonna have to walk a half-chihuahua, half-dauschund up and down Southern Street, I was gonna make damn sure she had street cred.

Little did I know that she would live up to her name by raising Hell at every given instance (I think the spiked collar might fluff her ego a bit, too). The list of casualties range from $120 restaurant shoes to tables and chairs. Not to mention the numerous blankets that have met an untimely fate thru her jagged little shark teeth. We actually bought this welded playpen to keep her in while Bekki and I are off being used for slave labor. At first we tried putting her in the back room and puppy-proofing everything. All we left down for her was some chew toys and blankets and doggy beds. She ended up pulling the blankets off a beanbag chair and disembowling the poor beanbag. We came home to find the room filled with beanbag stuffing (fresh from the beanbag AND logs that had traveled thru her digestive track).

She's contained for now.
I hope.