Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

The white flakes drift slowly to the ground, reminiscent of a snowfall on a quiet January night in Chicago. Except it isn't snow, it isn't January, and this isn't Chicago. Also there are bits and pieces of a yogurt cup lid, and candy wrappers mixed in with the tissues that Sasha has shredded. Yes, Sasha is a shredder. She shreds tissue, newspaper, coupons that Mark had carefully laid out, important documents, and my handkerchiefs. One thing we have learned since taking in this sweet little dog, I should say that I have learned, is that she will take any opportunity to rip to shreds whatever she can reach. Chandler shredded when he was a puppy, so did the late Molly, but they grew out of it. Sasha has not. In fact it seems to be a challenge to her, a dare if you will.
"Go ahead, make my day. Leave that rent check on the table."
This time it is the waste basket next to Mark's desk. The waste basket that he knows she will tip over and shred. Mark's reaction when he finds it is to scream. Now Sasha is hiding under the bed, shaking in fear, and distrustful of that big mean man. So I get on my hands and knees and beg her to come out. I try her squeaky toy. No, she will not come out. I tempt her with a cookie. NO again. Finally, from under the bed, she can see me putting on my shoes. There is only one thing above all others that she loves, truly loves, and that is a ride in the car. Unfortunately I'm not taking her for a ride. I'm taking her out for her poopy walk, and as we pass each car on our route she pulls me towards it.
"No Sasha, we aren't getting in that car."
She stops dead in her tracks and looks at me. It's as if she's trying to tell me that this is it. This is how we can escape Mark. Just jump into that car with me. Obviously she isn't as taken with his cooking as I am.