The OP photo reminds me of a story: a college classmate couldn't keep her puppy when she moved to a new off-campus apartment. Living back with my parents at the time, I offered to take the dog until a permanent solution was found.
My mother had planned to trash an old upholstered armchair that was all ratty and beat up. The dog evidently didn't think much of it either, because one day my friend & I went to my family house after classes, and found the puppy had chewed the chair to pieces in the unoccupied house. There must have been 5 bushels of white cotton batting just everywhere like a snowstorm, that the dog had torn from the chair. I had no idea so much stuffing was in furniture pieces.
We started filling grocery bags with the cotton fluff, when of course my mother came home early from her office at that very moment. She screamed, and yelled" "My good chair! It's ruined!"
Well, that was too much for us, and we just burst out laughing, which outraged my mother. But the absurdity of this derelict chair suddenly becoming her "good" one was simply too silly. Yet that was my mother, who almost always preceded any description of her things as "my good" no matter what their condition. How she got that habit, and if it was generational, I have no idea.
And so I still can't see a picture of a naughty dog without remembering that scene.