Edgar ate my knitting needles

Edgar was advised in no uncertain terms when he came to live here that to touch the knitting was to make his mumma unhappy. We know if mumma isn't happy, no one's happy.  The day came when I came home after work, doing my post work home inspection of what mischief (i don't know, is eating kitchen cabinetry mischief?) a galloping 140lb year old bullmastiff can get up to when he's left a lone for a couple of hours.  He has been a master shredder of assorted papers, but he had never touched a textile.  Until the day I came home and found my knitting had been disturbed.  Deep intake of breath.  Gingerly picking up the remains.  The knitting, of a gray boring brioche note, was untouched.  The lovely additurbo needles however were crunched.  Good boy.  This boy likes sharp implements.  One night recently when we were getting ready for bed, he bounded up onto the covers with an ahoy matey tilt to his head and a flash of silver in his mouth.  Ack.  I had been finding bits of blue plastic around the house, but now I found the source of the plastic, a wonderful henkel paring knife.

I think I like him better when he shreds