I just this minute turned around and snapped that photo. Swede William snoozing in his belly band.
I made all of the male dogs in my house belly bands. Someone believed that, given the record cold temps and my blatant dereliction of my dog servant duties (leaving for work and not returning for thirteen hours), someone had indoor potty privileges. Even though Bill was home and was letting them out every two hours. So I made belly bands.
Now, I had my suspicions. I thought I knew which of the five boys were being naughty. I'd look all squinty-eyed at the presumed guilty. "Did you pee in the house?" I'd growl. "I don't like that." The accused would slink away, affirming my presumptions.
After the wearing of the belly bands for several days, only one got wet. Repeatedly. The one I would have never. ever guessed.
I'm not going to embarrass the one who actually has been lifting his beige Scandinavian leg all over our house by naming him here. I wouldn't do that. But I must publicly apologise to Fat Charlie, Easy, Luciano, and Sam I Am for ever doubting them. They don't have to wear belly bands any more.
I once heard a saying that if it has tires or testicles it's going to be trouble. There's only one dog with testicles in this house. (Bill likes me to specify "DOG" when I make that statement.)