True Love/Eating the Furniture

Crash ate the couch yesterday. Well, I suppose technically he did not "eat" in the normal sense of "consumed" as much as attempted to ingest in the style of Cookie Monster (I was always perturbed by that - the futile attempts to eat the cookie and never actually getting any of it - I remember wondering as a child if Cookie Monster knew he was not actually getting a cookie, and if he ever did get to eat the cookie if he would maybe be less ravenous and obsessed...). At any rate, Crash decorated the living room with the remains of a couch cushion, which had been set aside the day before to dry out from the Nature's Miracle dousing it received because of the giant pool of urine on it - also a gift from Crash the Wonder Dorkie.
The point here is that after I had cussed and moaned and cleaned up yet another part of my furniture rent to pieces, I began to think about why it was possible to be so desperately in love with such destruction - when my ex-husband never went so far as to poop on my school bag or eat my make-up. I realized it had nothing to do with the level of destruction and everything to do with the intent behind it. It has nothing to do with how thoroughly my life has been turned inside out by this 12 pound creature and everything to do with the fact that no matter what, I am adored unconditionally. My furniture is torn apart, my favorite books shredded, my floor mercilessly peed upon, my best shoes pooped in simply because I am not there. My attention and mere presence is desired so much that, out of boredom and desperation, all 12 pounds of fur and teeth and walnut-brain are focused on letting me know I have been missed. And I can come home, have my natural reactions and frustrations - stomping and cussing and heaving heavy sighs and sending portentious glares - and this creature of mass destruction will simply look at me with complete and utter love and just... wait it out. Then, when he has deemed it sufficiently safe to invade my "dance space," my ridiculous puppy will wag his tail, climb into my arms and kiss my face. Unconditionally.
It is that simplicity of total, mutual love that has made it possible for Crash to live as long as he has being the complete shit that he is. No defensive excuses coming from him, no blaming of me for his bad choice to dig up my entire herb garden, no false promises that it will never happen again and no judgment of me for being pissed off at him for what he has done - just pure and unconditional true love, which I am learning is the only way to survive any relationship, be it of the four-legged or two-legged variety.