When I was a kid, we had a poodle named Pete. Poodles are pretty smart, and with smart goes sneaky.
Now, there was one place Pete knew he should never go: my parent's bed. He never even tried to violate that rule - it was as sacred as being housebroken.
Or so we thought.
On one particular evening, as the family gathered for dinner in the kitchen, we became aware that Pete was conspiciously absent. When the family gathered, it meant for Pete numerous opportunities for handouts. I walked out of the kitchen into the main hallway of our two story home, and caught just a glimpse of Pete as he reached the top of the stares, and walked slowly into my parents bedroom. He was the sort of dog that walked around with the self assured swagger of a dog secure on him home territory - but there was something too cautious in his step as he disappeared from my view.
I decided to investigate. I crept up the fifteen steps, and paused just by my parent's bedroom door. Slowly, I peered around the corner. There, in the middle of my parent's bed lay Pete on his back, waving all four legs back and forth in some sort of hyper ecstasy. I watched for a few seconds, still undetected.
"PETE!" I suddenly yelled, startling my dog and snapping him out of his dreamworld. Immediately he flipped over onto his feet. He stood on the bed staring at me for a second, then leaped off the bed barking, dashed by me and leaped again down the stairs. For the next five minutes, he ran around the house in a frenzy, barking non-stop, overwhelmed in doggie humiliation.
Pete made himself scarce. He couldn't stand to face us until the next day. We pretended it had never happened.