I will huff and puff and...!

And eat your couch!  Says our little Chloe when we are gone past her interpretation of our curfew.  There is nothing more frustrating or comic than opening the front door after a long day of just about anything, to inner-couch pillow fluff strewn meticulously about our living room, hallway and kitchen.  I know it's meticulous.  I can tell by her terribly expressive eyebrows which initially read: I redecorated!  I did so all by myself, because you left me, and you were not here to consult.  I prefer soft fluffiness every where don't you? (This quickly shifts as she realizes I am not enamored with Puppy Fluff Chic), and then it transitions to: I do not know why this fluff is everywhere!  It is horrible, and naughty fluff and we should get it! gggrr! 

How do you scold something, someone, any pup who looks at you with a look of: yes, I did do this.  But I can't remember why I did this and it just happened so fast and I couldn't stop myself, and I am not good at putting things back together, so I was hoping maybe you'd just let this one slide... maybe?  Please help.  Please don't tell Husby.

How indeed.  Husby has scolded her.  I have scolded her- though not nearly as fiercely, because I am determined to remain her favorite, no matter how many sumptuous, sexy stilettos she re-styles.  We keep firm faces- a stiff upper lip if you will, and we make her sit, and stay, and be still (which is puppy torture, in case you were unaware) and we re-insert all the fluff back into our couch pillows, which are now lumpy, and deformed and terribly, terribly sad and we plead and cajole and beg Chloe to let us have our furniture.  We bribe her with toys.  We distract her with bones.  We tempt her with treats and sometimes it works, but tonight it did not.  So now she sits at my feet, with me on our lumpy couch and chews her favorite bone merrily, because she has already forgotten that she had huffed and puffed and eaten our couch.