After an admittedly half-hearted workout, I went through my usual routine, drying off and getting dressed in front of my locker. As I started buttoning my shirt, I noticed that it lost a button by the collar. Luckily, it was near the top, so I figured I could just go sexy today and leave it open, but then I realized that the third button down was also missing. As was the bottom button. And the three spares that came with the shirt. As well as one on my sleeve.
I stood there for a moment, not quite sure what to do or make of the predicament I found myself in. Did I pull my shirt out too fast from my bag? I checked the bag. No buttons. Were they somehow in the locker? I pulled out all of my stuff. No buttons. I then looked at the little nubs of thread where the buttons used to be and noticed that not a thread was frayed.
Ah. Grr. Of course. Of all the times he laid in the closet, innocently sleeping or smelling our laundry, at least one of those times must have been devoted to carefully chewing off seven selected buttons from one of my favorite and most comfortable work shirts, leaving behind these:
I had a day full of meetings, from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, so I didn't have time to bike home, grab a new shirt, give Grr a dirty look, and make it back to work in time. So I put my T-shirt back on, threw the work shirt over it, buttoned the three buttons I could and slinked into work.
Fortunately, most of my meetings were over the phone, so I stayed shyly at my desk, walking briskly down to the hall to get water or go to the bathroom. But my last meeting was my team's weekly check-in meeting, and I had no excuse not to attend in person.
No sooner had I walked into the conference room, Sarah looked at me and said, "Oh, you forgot a button."
So I explained Grr's fascination with what Sam and I have given the misnomer, "phalanges:" any piece of dangling fabric, from towels to drawstrings to thread, as well as anything that deviates from a smooth surface, such as buttons on a shirt. I recounted the story of how Grr managed to chew on and unravel about a quarter of an old runner rug while crated in my parents' kitchen, resulting in a decent pile of fluff and decidedly non-rug. He couldn't resist. There must have been frayed phalanges sticking out already, calling to him like sirens to a drunken sailor.
When my parents, who weren't actually too upset, confronted him, he and Elliot both hopped on the couch and looked like this:
There's Elliot behind him, probably thinking, "Finally! Misbehavior that can't be pinned on me!" And Grr, our dear pup, leaning against the couch with his big eyes and serious eyeshadow--how can anyone be mad at that face?
Truth be told, after I conclusively determined that Grr was responsible for the case of the missing buttons, I called Sam with the news. He laughed, and I laughed a little myself.
And after I explained what happened to Sarah, she laughed as well and said how cute he must have been, nibbling diligently at my shirt, getting just the buttons off without a single mar on the shirt itself. "This how you get stories to tell people! Probably worth much more than those seven buttons." Sarah: always at the ready with positivity and goodness.
This is how it all starts. Soon, even serious offenses will seem adorable and worthy of praise. Who knew I would be an indulgent parent? Sam is no better. We are definitely sparing the rod.
In the act, though, he probably was mighty cute.
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