I have a dog.

He's a purebred rescue mutt. We think lab and maybe border collie. Or cattle dog. Or something.

He has issues. We got him at a year old, scared out of his mind, afraid of everything, but a loving sweet nature under the fear. He never bites or snarls, he mostly cowers if he's afraid, and it breaks our hearts when he runs away from a broom, a shovel, a flyswatter, a newspaper.

He gets a lot of leeway.

He loves fabric. Blankets, towels, dog toys, stuffed animals, socks, laundry. My daughter puts her animals away now, after too many of them have ended up in Grandma's Animal Repair Hospital. He loves to chew up anything that makes that satisfying ripping sound. He's learned to leave the carpets alone, I safeguard the laundry, he doesn't get dog beds with stuffing any more, and he has his own collection of ragged towels that he carries around the house. Quirky, yes, but aren't we all? We love him. He fits in our oddball family.

Yesterday, I brought clean clothes downstairs for my gym bag, tossed them on the couch, and proceeded to run around getting the kids ready for school. Breakfast, backpacks, lunches, teeth brushed, coats, all on a schedule NASA would envy, to launch them out the door for the bus.

In the quiet after launch, I checked my email. And I didn't check the familiar sound of the dog tearing up something. Probably a towel. Probably his blanket.

Actually my bra. Expensive, department store, fits me perfectly, now in little doggy-sized pieces, all over the floor.

Goddamn dog. I proceeded into my "bad dog!" routine, until I just couldn't any more, the sight of him cowering away from me with his tail between his legs, and I'm just a softie and a crappy dog trainer, and I should know better than to leave tasty bits of expensive fabric laying around.

And I realized that if losing an expensive bra to the dog is the worst thing that happened all day, I have a pretty good life.

And the dog came to sleep on my feet. All is forgiven.