Because sometimes heartbreak has teeth and a sense of humor.
It was one of those peaceful afternoons when everything seemed still, except for the 140-pound Mastiff named Pooh Bear. The breeze drifted through the trees, the sun poured golden warmth through the backyard, and the house… well, the house was about to lose a window.
Inside, it was quiet, too quiet. The kind of silence that meant something was being chewed.
When the front door creaked open, his owner froze mid-step. There, in the center of the living room, stood Pooh Bear; Chest broad, eyes wide. He saw a massive splintered chunk of wood in his jowls. The window frame behind him gaped open like a missing tooth.
He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t look proud either. Just… confused by the destruction he himself had caused.
And then came the words—raw, betrayed, stunned:
“Why, man? Why?”
Pooh Bear blinked. Sat down slowly like a toddler caught mid-crayon-on-wall. The piece of window frame was still clutched tightly in his slobbery grip. For a moment, he just sat there, holding it like a prized possession; his big body awkwardly regal, as if he were a king seated on a throne of regret.
And then he started eating it again.
Little bites. Thoughtful chews. Not frantic or angry, just committed. As if the wood had wronged him personally. His eyes didn’t leave his owner’s. It was less rebellion, more performance art.
The room was still. Sunlight framed the wreckage. A breeze drifted in through the gaping hole where the window once lived. Dust floated in the air, tiny witnesses to the crime.
There was no barking. No running. No scolding. Just a man, a Mastiff, and a very large piece of chewed-up regret.
Some dogs destroy furniture. Some chew their shoes. And then there’s Pooh Bear, who ate the window just to make you feel something.
