From the Floor: Sorry, Virginia.

Adelaide Macaroni Padgett is a puppy, specializing in sleep and play. She is author of The Perils of White Puppies in New England and Growling at Windmills. Her series for this blog, "From the Floor," strives to provide a commonplace-if not subaltern-view of newsworthy events.

Pembroke, NH--For two months we've allowed Mr. Kringle (also known as Mr. K) to live with us. I went to my grooming session in December, where I met this bearded, red-nosed man. When my ride came, he departed with us.

At first, Mr. K seemed great. He brought me gifts later in the month as a reward for my good behavior. I became suspicious, however, when I heard some squeaking in the house. When I confronted Mr. K about the sounds, he denied that he had-or even knew about-a squeaker. I wanted to believe him, but his obese figure and flamboyant coat would certainly allow him to smuggle a squeaker into Padgett Manor--a flagrant violation against my rules (and sensibilities).
I watched him for several weeks, and I kept hearing about his squeaking from others. Finally, I realized that I would have to interrogate Mr. K, robustly interrogate him. First, I removed his eyes. Nothing; the guy wouldn't budge. Then I plucked every hair from his beard. Still no results. I'm afraid that I went too far when I opened his neck and allowed his fluffy innards to see the light of day (pictured). Still, his death justified such cruel measures because-during the procedure-I found the squeaker that Mr. K denied during his interrogation.

We can all sleep well tonight. Padgett Manor is clear of all squeakers. To make an example out of him, I left pieces of Mr. K all around the home, warning all squeaker-carrying entities that their destruction is near.