I’m cleaning house this month. Along the way, I realized that the box I use to hold the dogs’ toys was not pulling its weight in my Bohemian decor scheme. Plain cardboard. I could do better.
I made a note to get a new, sturdy box the next time I went to Sam’s Club. The cashier looked at me funny for sniff-testing the boxes; the sturdiest hold cleaning products and neither the dogs nor I wanted those smells in the house. Certainly, not near their toys.
This time, I painted the box first. I used the first quart of paint that came to hand. (Yes, you can run with that sentence as far as you want. I have lots of house paint inside my house, and it comes in lots of colors, all of which go with pretty much any part of the house.)
Then, I dumped out the old toybox and looked at everything in there. My Labrador had a soft mouth when we came to live with me, and toys lasted forever. Then, he made a friend who was a pitt-Jack Russell mix, and Nigel learned to kill and destroy. Toys don’t last long. I collect stuffed animals from the swap shed, mostly. On days when I am thinking ahead, I inspect them for the weighted pellets in arms and legs, and cut those out before the dogs scatter them across the living room. I can handle cleaning up eviscerated fluff.
It was time to get rid of the shards. We had plenty of mostly-intact toys.
The new toybox was a success, at least measured by the speed at which all the toys came out of it. “Wow! I haven’t seen this in forever! I love this toy! and this toy! and this toy! and this toy!”