There was an unwritten law[1] that all fluffy canines adhered to. We can even go so far as to say that it was unspoken.
The law was that the bed was sacred. The Dog-Deities had deigned that the fluffs may join them from time to time upon the sacred pastures known as “bed” but that the place was as a holy place, not to be defiled or desecrated. It was to be treated with great respect, especially when fluffy hounds were permitted to sleep with the deities they worshipped.
All this has changed. A baaaaaad dog did urinate upon the holy sheets and mattress of the promised bed, and in so doing ushered in a new, hound-human-fellowship-barren era.
Dark dog days indeed. Dark, lonely days.
[1] It may have been unwritten because dogs, as far as I know, cannot read. Even if they could, it was unlikely that the law would have been inscribed anywhere.
The Waffle Group 
Shame fluffs. They have transgressed and must be punished.
Hmm. “Bad dog!” Possibly the only two english words fluffs can understand.
In pet related news, Gaby and I donned our superhero capes and swooped in to attempt to rescue a feline from the SPCA yesterday. We found a likely candidate for extraction; she is a nondescript moggy of dubious ancestry (and intelligence, for that matter), but seems to be mostly tabby, and looks amusingly like Yoda having a bad day. The SPCA needs to perform procedures first, such as do some background checks to confirm that we are not ritual cat-sacrificers and so forth, but we should be all set to become menial servants to the condescending beastie early next week.