One of Harry’s favorite nocturnal pastimes is to troll for used tissues or paper towels. These are the usual paper products you keep in the bedroom for the usual bedroom purposes: flu and allergy byproducts, whatever. It’s not exactly an attractive habit, but, after all, he’s a dog. (Cats, as we know from TV, will unreel perfectly fresh toilet paper just for the hell of it, but turn up Her collective nose at bodily output. Especially Her own.)
If Harry’s lucky, he may find an errant sneeze catcher that has fallen on the floor by the bed. But failing that, he will click clack from room to room at 3:00 A.M. trying to gain access to various wastepaper baskets and their constantly changing treasures. We have adjusted as best as possible and elevated several beyond reach. You may have wondered why our wastebaskets are conveniently at eye level; now you know.
Periodically, inevitably, he will find a reward. Then the never-off internal parental sentry wakes us to contented grunting, shredding, and swallowing sounds from somewhere in the darkness beyond the foot of the bed. We may jump to intervene, tell him he’s BAD and attempt to grab what bits remain, in the process quadrupling our heart rate. Or we may roll over.
The following day is the best part, with several trips to the front yard, first by Harry, then by one of us to pick up (whoever wins the bet, in my opinion). I am fascinated by his creativity and revel in the interesting formations of his striated fecal papier mâché. Not to dwell on it, but the tonal range and marbling are exquisite. Certainly not as colorful or garish as when he ate a bag of jellybeans, but more like the attractive wood grain in some weathered oak, twisted by the forces of nature and time (four hours or less).
I have suggested that, with this paper fixation, Harry is actually being thoughtful and neat (even catlike?), cleverly arranging to automatically wipe his ass as he shits. Of course, Laurel disagrees.
