Yesterday I cleaned and organized our spare downstairs bedroom. For all intents and purposes, this room is a large, walk-in closet that just happens to have a bed, a treadmill and some other pieces of furniture in it. It's where all the household stuff lives that doesn't have a better place to live. In a century old house with only one closet on the first floor, that's a lot of stuff.
Most of it is dog stuff.
Most of the dog stuff was crate pads. I seem to have some kind of disorder when it comes to buying crate pads and apparently have been accumulating them for no apparent reason. Phoenix has outgrown his ripping-chewing-shredding days (at least as far as crate pads are concerned) but clearly that hadn't stopped me from buying replacements, just in case. I had stacks and stacks of laundered and neatly folded pads in all manner of fleece, imitation lambswool and other fabrics.
I took inventory. After making sure the Belgians' tent crates were double padded, there were good pads in the van crates and there were pads in all the metal folding crates that I don't even use any more, plus a number of spare pads on standby should an emergency crate pad situation arise, I still had a dizzying number left over.
To make it worse, I know there is a storage tote in one of the upstairs bedrooms that is packed full of sheltie-sized crate pads. When I lost Connor, I washed up all his bedding and stored it carefully away for future use.
Looks like there will be quite a few gently used 24 x 36 crate pads on the ICDOC raffle in the spring.
In the meantime, again, I beg of you, if you see me even looking at a display of dog bedding at a vendor, please, stage an intervention.