Sophie, the dog, has not been very happy with us lately. First, her brother died. She didn’t understand that at all. Then, she had surgery to remove a bunch of weird lumps. Now, she looks like franken-dog with half a dozen large scars in the middle of shaved patches.

She has been acting out her displeasure in the most effective method possible: by peeing.

The other day, while my youngest son was lying on the couch sick, she walked to the center of the den and pee’ed right in front of him.

He was, as you might imagine, both shocked and disgusted.

Since then, my message to the boys has been to take Sophie out whenever she starts to look even a little bit interested in the rug. Today, I was talking to my oldest son on the phone, warning him about Sophie.

“I know, I know,” he said. “If she pees, you’ll yell at me.”

“No I won’t,” I said. “It’s not a yelling situation.”

“What?”

“Of course not. This is a ‘go clean it up’ situation. There’s no yelling involved.”

He pondered that for a moment. “I think I’m going to let her out,” he said. “I’ve got to go.”

Smart boy.