Oy...pets.

My dog much prefers being outside over inside.  She doesn't care how hot or cold it is, as long as she gets to go play in her pen. 

It's been raining on and off for the past week (more on than off).  Her pen is a muddy mess, partially because of the rain, but partially because the dog has systematically destroyed most of the grass.  And dug holes to sleep in.  Because she likes holes. 

So, since her pen has been such a mess, she's spent a lot more time than usual inside. 

And yesterday, I needed to vacuum.  So, I did.

I neglected to take into account that the dog, despite being a spayed female, has more balls than a lot of men I know; hasn't been in the house when I've vacuumed before; and hates the lawn mower, and will attack it through her pen's fence. 

She set up a really loud ruckus while I was vacuuming the far end of the room from her, and was out of her reach.  But when I switched to the end between the end of the couch and the kitchen door (where she could reach), the story changed.  The dog.  Attacked.  The vacuum. 

I will admit, it was nowhere near as bad as this.   Then again, the dog is a Scotty.  About 20 pounds, and maybe a foot and some change tall.   And she was tied to the fridge so that she'd actually eat her food, rather than playing like an idiot, so she couldn't actually do much harm. 

But.  She hates the vacuum fully as much, and thinks she's as big as, Murphy.