The nails on my left hand are black right now. No, I didn't paint them black in a self-conscious attempt at becoming "emo" or "emo-like". And, no, I didn't accidentally crush my fingers with a hammer. Although, that wouldn't hurt to solidify my masculine persona. No, the cause of this androgynous stunt is purely coincidental. It seems one of my beloved pooches decided to steal a pen from the coffee table and disembowel it. I suppose a small amount of regret was felt, because the animal in question then decided that the pen deserved a proper burial- especially considering the horrific death it endured. The grave? Between the cushion of my favorite chair.
So I pull my hand up to see it covered in black ink. Then I pull the cushion up to see that it, too, is covered in black ink. The culprit, I concluded, might also be covered in black ink. My conclusions were right. I give each dog a solid inspection. Dixie? Clean. Ernie? Also clean. Red? Caught, well, red handed.