Bright and early this morning, my husband took the dog out for a Christmas morning constitutional. Since it’s Scotland, that means pitch dark if it occurs any time before about 10:AM. A surprisingly long time later, he was at the door trying to call me without waking up the house packed with sleeping guests. “Um… YOUR dog,” he stammered.

“Use your words, PhD!” I hissed back. (It’s a never-ending source of joy to me that Mr. Raised-Proper-In-Boston can’t say sh*t.)

“She’s had a…technical…difficulty. With her…er…her…” A look of pure desperation. “It’s stuck to her. YOUR dog. She’s your dog.”

Okay, so sometimes I take it too far. While I was going all schadenfreude on his panic, the dog shot past him and proceeded to try to wipe off the results of her failure. On the oriental rug in the hall. Then the other oriental rug in the hall. Then the one…