A new rug arrived at my house; many knots per inch.  Very tight.  Very expensive.

My friends carefully placed it in a position of prominence, in my world.  It was very different, and full of different colors and hues I had never before seen.  My senses were challenged by its subtle brilliance.  I sniffed it all over.   The smells, no, the fragrances were phenomenal.    It was as if they were from another world; a very exotic world.   This was no ordinary rug.   It seemed almost edible.

I wanted to possess it.  I wanted it for my own.  I wanted it.

There’s only one way for that rug to be mine; I’m going to pee on it.  So I did.  I figured that there should be no uncertainty about ownership, so I completely emptied the tank.  IT WAS MINE!!

The bad news is that it was now freshly wet; very wet.   However, the wetness was difficult to detect since the colors in the rug were so meticulously entwined and changed from brightness to darkness in hundreds of places.  The wet spot was just another nearly indiscernible change; nearly.  Surely no one would notice, and now the rug was quietly mine.  

Maybe they WOULD notice.  If they did, they would not like my addition to the décor.  I will let them know what I’ve done when they get home.  I’ll just stand there by the wet spot until they come to pet me.  They’ll feel the wetness, scold  me, clean it up, dry it out and go on with life.  I may suffer some down stream consequence but it won’t be that bad because I fessed up and took my medicine.  It’ll be over.  Good plan.  I’m relieved.

My friends came home, I chickened out and we all admired the new rug from a distance for the rest of the evening.  I missed my chance for redemption.

By the next afternoon, below the rug, mildew began to form.  I could smell it with my powerful nose.  The dog urine would eventually ferment and become a part, forever, of the rug’s fabric.  It would stink for 12 years.  The classic 6 inch wide pine planks below began to warp by day 3.  Day 7 revealed some color changes to the magnificent vegetable dyes which defined patterns in the weave.  My friends noticed a difference on Day 13, as the afternoon sunlight moved ever so slowly across the former masterpiece.  The planks below were rotting.

The rug was ruined.   I was to blame.  They wanted to kill me.  I wanted to die.  Oh Big Dog, why hast thou forsaken me?  Which brings me to Dog Rule #2:

The sooner and in more detail you get out the bad news, the better.

The Wisdom of Willie Bean