That is my footstool. That is my dining table chair. That is my place setting, and that was my dinner you ate standing on the table while I was getting the ice water. I have noted that you like cole slaw, yes. And cucumbers.
Oh, please. A whole package of ear plugs?
No, the bathtub stopper and my flip-flops straps did not contain dog treats, despite your best efforts to find them.
No, that is not an alien invader. That is a clothes drying rack with some harem pants draped on top. Barking is futile.
No, leeks are not dog toys.
Yes, perhaps for the best you can't tell me what this is, where it's been, how you got it, and why it is under my desk chair.
This does not bode well. Where is the rest of my flash drive?
That was my calligraphy pen. And that ink is indelible.
Wow. A lollipop. A pack of gum. Some receipts. Perhaps our guest would like them back? Then again, perhaps not. And yes, we have to tell him you went into his jacket pockets.
Those are MY reading glasses. And those are my sunglasses.
DOGS DON'T CHEW GUM.
I have put all my shoes on high shelves. Help yourself to everyone else's.
I agree, he was a very handsome Welsh Terrier; and yes, your eyes did lock. But no, we cannot follow him home.
Did you turn on the television while I was out?
If you are going to turn off the light by pawing the power strip, turn it back on, please.
Those are night tables. Dogs don't climb onto night tables. Cats climb onto night tables. You are a dog.
Although impressive, your wallpaper removal skills are not required at present. Also, that is not another dog in the mirror, and said dog is not trespassing.
Yes, in theory it would be possible for you to get from the basket of towels to the radiator cover and then onto the dressing table, but you should figure out how to get down first.
That is a book. Dogs don't eat books. In particular, they do not eat Barbara Morgan's photographs of Martha Graham.
The wastebaskets are not toy boxes.
Those are not your shoes. Those are my shoes. Neither are those your panties.
