As I picked myself up off the floor and pried random bits of dog chow-type shrapnel from under my fingernails, I realized two things. The first was that the Labs’ Pop was coming up the back steps, and their keen doggie superpowers had alerted them to the fact that he was laden with a cheeseburger plate and a side order of crinkle-cut fries. And slaw.
Second, the sloshing sound of the tide going out, and a certain uncomfortable dampness in the seat of my pants alerted my keen superhuman powers that I had landed in their water dish.
I want to trade superpowers.
Sensing personal discomfort is over-rated. I’d rather clue in to the breaking cheeseburger news and leave the waterlogged underpants for the Scene at Eleven.
There’s nothing like a brace of dogs to remind you to watch your step as you go about your daily chores. No task is too small to escape supervision. After all, there is the possibility that at any second the broom will transform into a pillar of potato chips or the dirty laundry into basket of biscuits. I once tripped over a Dachshund while vacuuming because she detected a six week old Cheerio in the hose and was trying her paw at spelunking into canister.
Not long enough after my evening water bowl plunge, I woke one morning and ricocheted gently down the hall and off the kitchen appliances in a destination set for Coffee Pot. With one eye open at half-mast to guide me, and that keen intelligence that comes when Daylight Savings time has just kicked in, but the body’s internal clock is still on snooze, it took several shuffled steps before I realized my course was plotted straight through the Little Friskies zone where Danger Cat was flinging salmon pate like monkeys fling poop. There’s nothing like unidentified ooze between your toes to bring you to full alert status.
From uncomfortable experience, I’ve found that any unscheduled activity in the kitchen sends off a hint of impending snacktime that brings an avalanche of furry bodies barreling along a treacherous course to the refrigerator. So, while swimming out of the water dish, scouting the floor for stray Cheerios, and computing the likelihood of the whole thing recurring like a coconut radio invention on Gilligan’s Island, I made an important life decision.
My next pet will be a garden gnome.