Since bludgeoning something is satisfying, but not a solution, Jerry starts swearing. Something peed on the couch.

Had he come home, poured a bowl of cereal, and walked past the couch, talked to it, looked at it, or just admired its welcoming shadows, things would have been fine Tuesday night. Instead, he sat on the couch with his cereal balanced in one hand and a drink in the other. The welcoming shadows were pee stains.

Jesus, she drinks half the toilet and then does this, he said. He means Lily. I am apologetic, but how do we fix this? I know dogs are not scheming conniving things, but to choose the couch requires whatever snippet of rudimentary planning tools that dogs may have. The couch. When nobody is looking. Squat and pee. A LOT of pee. A whole toilet worth of pee. That inventive sequence is designed for something, but what? Are we not letting you out enough? Do you want the couch for yourself? Do you want to mark your territory? Does the upholstery offend you?

In the last few weeks one of the dogs has been sneaking in a bathroom visit there on the cushions, and we don't know who. We have theories. Is it Lily? Hershey and Bandit have never before enjoyed the warm sharp aroma of their own urine soaking the spot where they rest their heads. Ozzy? We doubt it since he reigns like a heavyweight in one corner and snarls if anyone wants his spot. But why would Lily suddenly begin peeing on the couch, soaking through the fabric and under layers right down to the foam?

Her ass is finally cleared up and without the incontinence she feels adrift? Poor dog needs an ailment to feel normal?

At 10:32 at night I abandon a freelance project for a load of laundry. After reading snippets of one friend's adventure from state to state, I leave him on the streets of New York to narrate without me listening anymore as I trade in his words for a tumbling rusty colored heap in the washing machine. I am waiting for the pee to rinse out.