Seriously, Lucy?

A side effect of living in Atlantic Canada is getting some ridiculously cold weather. Yesterday was particularly bad, with the temperature dipping to below -30 (Celsius, you non-Canadians!) with the wind chill factor.

Tangent: I just found out it's called the wind chill factor, as opposed to the windsheild factor, as Andrew so amusingly pointed out. Wind chill makes so much more sense cause really, what does a windsheild have to do with weather?

Added Tangent: Andrew told me that it was so funny because the only other person he had ever heard use the term windshield factor was a crackhead he used to work with. Yes, I was compared to a crackhead. But I was reasured that I'm much prettier.

Because of the freezing cold, I felt bad for Lucy and decided to let her stay inside for the day. Knowing her past history with unsupervised housesitting, I took care to have shit on lockdown. All the doors were closed, the food put up on the counters, the leftover Christmas decorations on top of the piano, the cat toys in the cat room, etc. I was twenty minutes late for work because I was so busy cleaning up the crap. I also gave her millions of chewy toys and bones to keep her busy during the day.

Did I come home to the Hell I witnessed before Christmas? No. I entered into more of a Purgatory; not as bad as hell, but most definitely not a fun place to be.

Tika doesn't give a fuck.

The most ironic part of all this is the book that she tore to pieces:

Her mess was a mixture of shredded cardboard and paper, plastic boxes, a boxed smoke detector and one packet of Apple Cinnamon Instant Oatmeal. As you all can guess, I was not pleased. She was put in a time out and had her toys taken away.

To be petty, here are some embarassing pictures of Lucy, courtesy of Andrew-the-Fashion-Designer. (Because the clear solution to this problem is shaming my dog into submission using the internet to spread photos.)

Take that, bitch.