There's an R. Kelly "Trapped in the Closet" joke in here somewhere.

Sunday was National Dog Day.

I missed it. My Guy insists that with 4 dogs, it's always National Dog Day at our house.

Foxie Doxie implores you ...

Look at the babies!

Look at them!

Woman, you know what you're supposed to do here. Get on it.

But mostly? Mostly, I'm hoping I don't get turned into the ASPCA. See ... last week? My Guy and I escaped to our bedroom for, uh, some quality adult time?

Yeah. And Lil' Frankfurter barked the entire time, as is his custom. Except he sounded really far away.

When the quality adult time was over (My Guy would like me to add that it was a really, really, really long time - like, 7 or even 8 minutes), My Guy went downstairs to calm the freaked-out canines - because there is nothing more freaky than your parents getting freaky.

Except ... he couldn't find Lil' Frank. He could hear him, but he couldn't actually find him.

Until he opened the hall closet.

I had shut my dachshund in the closet.

I became one of those people who locks their kids in a closet so that they can go get it on.

I am a horrible parent.

But he weighs 7 pounds! It's not easy to keep track of a guy who is roughly the size of an obese gerbil! And he gets obsessed about random things in our house - like on top of the refrigerator, or inside the hall closet.

He thinks that he is just a well-timed jump away from reaching the closet shelf where his coat is stored ... a shelf that's about 6 feet off the ground. So, he sneaks into the closet any chance he gets. Maybe this will be the time when his inner Michael Jordan really shines through and he gets his coat and can drag it around the house and chew it up and generally be a jerk.

Hope springs eternal.

I'm hoping that he isn't scarred for life. I am.