Good Taste in Books, no. 2

Basenjis are devilish creatures. Owners of this breed of dog will say that the dogs train them more than the owners are able to train the dogs. Yo-Yo might know "sit," but I know to keep the closet door closed if I don't want holes chewed in my underwear, and I leave the TV remote, cell phone, and stapler out of the dogs' reach if I don't want to find a pile of mangled plastic components on the living room floor. Elizabeth, proud owner of basenji Pequod, knows to push the bananas and tomatoes to the back of the kitchen counter—or better yet, put them on top of the refrigerator—if she expects to have fruit for breakfast or salad for dinner. I think that most basenji owners reach happy compromises with their pets: In my house, I keep the toy chest full of smelly hooves, and the dogs don't eat the sofa.

Both Yo-Yo and Bug are way past puppyhood, but they can still get into trouble. Usually I conclude from their bad behavior that I am being punished. "You were gone too long, so we decided to chew the zipper out of this pillow," their faces say when I get home.

The last book that Bug ate was an expensive collection of plays by Euripides, my favorite ancient author. I was really looking forward to reading fresh, clean pages of the Alcestis, for instance, without getting distracted by marginal comments I had made in graduate school or while preparing for classes. I thought I understood that destruction, as I had gone out longer and later than usual one Friday night.

Sometimes, though, the destruction is inexplicable.

The most recent bit of destruction, for example, has no reason as far as I can figure. I had spent the whole evening at home. I was brushing my teeth, getting ready for bed. I heard a thump in Command Central, the spare bedroom I use for all things technological, and mistakenly guessed that Bug had jumped off the chair.

When I finished my bathroom routine, I walked past the open doorway of Command Central to witness Bug mauling my $125 dragonfly book, which he had pulled off the desk. Of all the things he could have chosen! I have poorly written/edited textbooks from school that I would have encouraged him to chew, dried out Sharpie markers, printouts I could have found again on the internet. But, no, he has to eat my most expensive book:


Eventually, I will forgive him. But I am left wondering why? Does the binding use really sweet glue? Did the guy who packaged it have greasy fingers from lunch at McDonald's? Can Bug smell cost and then intentionally chooses my most expensive purchase? Is Bug an incarnation of the Buddha, here to teach me nonattachment to material things? The little devil always eats books that are too expensive for me to justify replacing.

At least the book is still readable, unlike the collection of Euripides, half of which Bug vomited up during the 24 hours following its destruction. Ah, basenjis!

How can you stay mad at such a cute puppy, Ma?