so saturday, mid-morning bath time, the house became a bit, too silent.

the usual sounds of hijinks and revelry combusting between tweedle-dee and tweedle-elephantine seemed to vaporize. the last i had seen them, they had set up training camp for their own the hunger games, priscilla ALWAYS katniss to jones’ peeta.

a bar stool and a few fern plants were listed among the morning’s casualties, but nothing that couldn’t be set back up on its hind legs; much like priscilla, where a body slam from jones, who outweighs her by over 50lbs, can throw her to the opposite side of the block. for such a wee thing that lass is remarkably resilient.

no the house was quiet enough for confession, which bolted me out of the tub, flew me down the stairs, where i found the latest in priscilla’s shenanigans.

a wicked missy, my priscilla, if you remember, she has a history with the nonsense. it began with the reese’s peanut butter cups, then it was my sweater, and of course the dryer sheets, and we all remember infamous the nuts, right?

oops! and lest i forget my favorite pillow?

well this saturday she took the prize….the hussy mowed down nearly a whole box of thick, long, stinky, sulfur tipped matches.

i came downstairs and found the ungovernable minx chowing down, hard, on the sulfur sticks like they were the finest wagyu beef filets in the states.

a practical campfire on our hallway carpet; girl scout troops encircling her with their impaled marshmallows, breaking out into song and storytelling, as priscilla kindled in the middle like a pier side fire pit.

up close her breath smelled stronger than a firework, and she fought me off for every, last, bloody stick.

i was less than impressed by her watchdog brother, who i am suspecting aided and abetted the lifting of said matchbox from the coffee table.

he feigned innocence, apathy and well, adorableness….

i was immediately on the phone with the vet, the emergency vet and my psychiatrist who all assured me to stay calm, and to watch for signs of distress: panting, shaking, itching, vomiting, etc…..

yes! i am exhibiting all of these symptoms doctor, but what about my dog?

priscilla appeared normal, but i had to watch her like a hawk a dog who had just eaten a box of matches.

panic is an understatement. i’ve lost a pup before to “foreign ingestion”, and wasn’t about to let it happen again.

4 hours and 2 packages of english muffins later {priscilla AND jones willing emotional eating participants with their mother} i needed to teach my girl a lesson.

i knew a visit to the spa was in order. hopefully if she looked like a lady, priscilla might start acting like a lady.

a plucky, solid scrub and bath would hopefully do my brat some good; maybe it just came down to paying someone to wash the naughty right out of my nasty beast.

plus nothing exhausts my girl more than a day at the groomer. 100% full, unadulterated attention from melissa and miguel, her two most favorite people in the world…..tis true, hh and i fall a short 3 and 4 on that favorite person list comparably.

post buff and shine, my girl was as pearly as a tiara wearing toddler, AND as trampy looking too: behind each ear the little hussy sported, rhinestone encrusted, fuchsia feathers…. my own little jon benet.

i’m not sure if it’s the ridiculous, stripper-like feathers, the feeling of complete self-absorption, or that she’s just like her mother and loves being sparkly clean, but priscilla walks a different, more lady-like strut post-groomer. in 3 hours this goofy golden retriever morphs into an aristocratic afghan. her behavior is a 10 for at least 3 days.

but before we jumped in the car to go home i made sure she saw what could be if things got out of hand again:

i showed her what happens to dogs who eat matches, pillows, sweaters, dryer sheets & reese’s peanut butter cups.

we talked about her life before canyon ranch, halloween costumes, pink christmas trees, morning conversations and sun tans. i reminded her of what life was like before i picked her up, and took her in; a life where she roamed the streets, ragged, covered in mange, no home, no tags, eating del taco and turning tricks for the local strays. 

ashamed, repentant, mournful, exhausted, but mostly bloated from english muffins and sulfur, my pet took to her bed, feathers in her hair, and slept off her day of behavior bad and {hopefully} lessons learned.

the adventure will continue i’m sure……