Happiness. It's relative.
Hello. I am Swirl.

I chewed these pants.

These aren’t the first pants I’ve chewed. I also chewed a pair of black leggings. Those were ladies pants. These are men’s. Were.
After I chew pants, I lay on them. It’s sort of like killing a small muskrat and then curling up with it for just a bit before, well, you know.
There is a limit to how much pants I can chew. Because I’m not just chewing, you see, I actually eat the pants. I had to stop with these because I have part of a pink tennis ball in my stomach. That has to go somewhere before there are more pants coming in.
That’s all. I just wanted to show you the pants I chewed.
Swirl, thank you for confessing and joining Dog Chewers Are Us. A former member, my Irish Wolfhound Strider, ate pockets. Not the pants or the jackets, just the pockets. Because, well, I assume we all carried interesting things in our pockets.
Oh Swirl.
There’s a medicine in a tube for cats, molasses based, that you squeeze out and the cats lick it up and it’s supposed to help hairballs move along. Is there something like that for dogs? (PS My dog ate yarn, $890 later the yarn was recovered.)
Dear Swirl, Thanks for sharing! I once ate a couch. And part of a door. Gave it up, I don’t know why, but your story makes me remember the good old days. Love, Idgie.
Swirl, you may want to consider joining a series of Chewer’s Anonymous meetings to help you get a handle on this addiction.