I don’t bathe my dogs until they smell like river otters. I just don’t. I don’t vacuum until the house is an asthmatic’s nightmare. I never wash my car. I only bathe because the rest of you do, and people act weird when you start to smell like stale urine and b.o.
We do the health stuff. Everyone sees the dentist, eats well, and exercises, but housework is…meh. I wash all my clothes at the same temperature and then throw everything out into the backyard to dry. I like weeds and only trim them back once they, Day of the Triffids style, start to take over the water supply. I wash dishes and wipe down countertops because there is NO difference between food poisoning and dysentery except for the fever and the hallucinations. (I have experience lying on the ground, on a beach, in a thunderstorm, watching red crabs the size of manhole covers dance around my supine form because I was too ill to stay inside, watching scorpions try to get past the netting I’d tucked around my bed).
Today, the dogs smelled like fetid fish, rotten petroleum products, and brine.
Petco wants 60 bucks to start.
Hell no.
So I dump the girls into the bathtub, knowing that I will need to purge the pipes afterward, and they start to shake as if I am bathing them in acid rain. I also have trouble keeping tabs on my nightguard, the TV remote, my keys, my phone, and which of the seven coffee cups in my living room contain most of the recently warmed-over version of my life’s blood. While I’m washing the dogs, several of these items drop into the tub either because they are in the pockets of my I Am Groot jammies or because I swiped them into the tub with my sleeve, while reaching for the soap. So I am frantically trying to keep it all from washing down the drain while the dogs (each with brand new knees) try to hop out of the tub onto the slick bathroom tiles.
It took about eight minutes tops; I would bet. It still felt like an adventure. I need some carbs.
Happy Thanksgiving Everybody!!!
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