A Letter for the Labradors

Dear Dogs,

I realize you have a reputation to uphold. After all, you don’t sleep 15 hours a day just because you’ve got nothing to do. (Oh, wait; yes you do.) The spastic hyperactive crazed dog fit that comes in the twenty minutes it takes me to drive to the store for kibble, hamburger, and Pine Sol is the perfect opportunity to use all that energy you’ve stored up sleeping on my grandmother’s hand-sewn comforter.

The sound of the deadbolt slamming into place in the back door and the pathetic wheeze of my ten-year-old oil-burner valiantly attempting another run at the hill at the end of our driveway is exactly the incentive you need to leave your cozy nest and mount an assault on the trash can that leaves my kitchen resembling the remains of the Bin Laden compound after Seal Team Six came through. The only thing missing is the news team recording misinformation for the masses.

I understand that the Iditarod is run by teams of sled dogs that work with such precision that a single wrong step can throw the whole team off, but those puppies are sock puppets compared to the destruction a pair of Labradors can instigate during a fifteen minute absentee-owner break. If there are mass destruction world records to break, you can’t live with yourselves another second without sliding down the hall on your blubber-filled butts and shattering them like Lalique crystal on a brick floor.

I also realize you are trying to make a point. To the best of your tiny sesame seed-sized recollection, you’ve been nothing but good and true ever since the incident with the television remote. Since you have no sense of time, it’s hard to explain to you that the vet trip for that little snackfest ended just last night. And the one for the pantyhose ingestion drama is still front page news. So even though you’re rallying against oppression, I have to insist that you stay out of the coffee grounds, drop the banana peel, and back away from the scented soap.

And while you’re at it, stay out of the kitty litter. There’s some things that give you breath that even Irish Spring can’t erase.

Besides, a goatee made out of Fresh Step just looks silly.

Love,
Mom

Muddy Waters

“The water’s brown.”

“It’s supposed to be brown. I’ve been cleaning stuff.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just smear mud on the clean spots?”

“It’s November. There’s enough mudslinging without me joining in.”

Cleaning the bathroom is a lot like electing a President. You need to wipe away all traces of anything nasty and create a sparkling platform that will stand up to all the dirt that will come to light later on.

This weekend, as I sprawled on the bathroom floor peering into corners that don’t always (um, ever) receive the full scope of my attention, I couldn’t help but think of the upcoming elections. There’s not a presidential candidate at stake, but given the choices on the ballot I found myself wishing I could scoop back through the litter box for some better alternatives.

I’m from South Carolina, an area where throwing your hat into the ring involves more hat tricks than rings and there’s not anybody in the limelight I’d want to tip my cap to without keeping a firm hand on my wallet.

“Trouble?” The Captain of my Scrub Boat lounged in the doorway, sipping coffee and checking his watch. He likes a clean bathroom as much as anybody, but once the scrubbing bubbles crowd lunchtime, he’s done with the dirty work. Besides, it’s his job to contain the mess I make when cleaning, and this time it could take a village just to get me off the floor.

“Toss me that sponge. I can’t get rid of this mystery spot.”

“That’s no mystery. It’s barbecue sauce.”

“Do I want to know the whole story?”

“It involves chicken nuggets.”

“Oh.”

“And the dog.”

“Never mind.”

“You don’t see any stray french fries down there, do you?”

“No, but there’s something in the litter box that I don’t plan to investigate.”

After a while I found that I’d scrubbed my way into a space up against the wall and it was either make a dramatic exit through the window or track dirty footprints back the way I’d come. Life is full of those times when neither choice sounds beneficial.

“Help!”

Cap appeared again in the doorway. “It's lunchtime. Need a life preserver?”

“I’ve backed myself into a corner.”

“Step on these newspapers and then grab my hand.” He laid the front page and the comics to make a pathway to the door. I never thought about it before, but they seemed to work well together and I followed the newsprint road to the door.

Free at last, I look backed to admire the morning’s work. The floor was spotless except for the tiny corner where I’d been stranded.

“Not bad for a morning’s work,” I grinned. Everything’s clean except one place that’s hidden behind the closet door, and I have somebody who can give me a hand when I’m in a tight spot.

I can’t think of a better way to celebrate Election Day.

Broom Beneath My Wings

Night was a memory, but shadows still lurked in the corners of the kitchen. Silence blanketed the house like, well, a blanket. I blinked in the direction of the newspaper and aimed a watery imitation of coffee toward my mouth.

Through the brain haze, I pondered the best way to use the name Justin Bieber in a blog post to insure maximum search engine potential. Two months ago, nobody had ever heard of this kid. Yesterday my newborn niece was born sporting an “I Love Justin Bieber” tattoo right on her binkie.

Son Two appeared at my side like a spirit. “So, what are your plans for the moth in the bathroom?”

He and I share a common bond. We may disagree on nonessentials like the frequency of bathing or the advantages of using a fork to eat, but when it comes to the inalienable need for a homeland security system to warn against rogue insects, we’ve got our priorities right in line.

I’m fairly certain that in a bid to secure the benefits of a hefty life insurance policy, my husband left the assassin moth behind in the shower this morning. It’s a clever ploy, but my warning system is far ahead of him. Daylight was still a stranger and I was not yet awake enough to know that I had eyes, but my internal sensors had already informed me there was a moth in the bathroom.

I rolled the sports section and nudged Son Two toward the door. “I thought you’d take care of it.”

Right. He’d decorate his first car with pompom fringe and rooftop reindeer before he’d take on an insect assassin with wings of death.

“I’m not going in there. The thing has fangs dripping blood.”

This kid is 19. If he ever marries, I hope it’s to entomologist with a proven catch and release program, or a ninja warrior woman wielding a No Pest Strip in each hand like nunchuks.

Besides, I knew his story was true. Blood-drenched fangs are a natural accessory of rogue moths. It also had the wingspan of a dragon and clutched the wall with spiked talons. Nature’s death machine. And it was probably hungry.

“Well, we could get the broom, wave it around, and see if he’ll fly.”

Son Two looked at me as if I’d suggested we don pink-tasseled thongs and volunteer to lead the cheers at the next Republican rally. To him it was more vampire bat than harmless visitor. “There’s no other door. Where do you think he’s going to fly?”

“The only other choice is to wake up your brother.”

Son One, Rip Van Winkle, hit the snooze button back at the half century mark and still has a five decade siesta to take care of before his eyelids see action. Waking him up before he’s ready is like summoning the Kraken. He rises from the depths, consumes all the groceries, and then resubmerges until suppertime.

Clutching the door frame, Son Two peered around at me. “You go first.”

Who says a child will do anything for a mother that loves him? Well I’m not excited about going all Harry Potter for him, either.

“Okay, give me the broom.”

He hands me the weapon and I embark as stealthily as Rambo on my version of Psycho II: Moth Balls R Us.

As I approached the creature, I realized two things. My son is slamming the bathroom door repeatedly on the heel of my shoe in an attempt to trap me with the monster. Also, if I lose control of bladder functions in the heat of battle, I’ll likely lose the element of surprise, slip through the puddle, and slide into the litterbox like it was home plate.

With one arm in the air like a seasoned fencer, I brandished my broom in the direction of the Moth Monster. “Hello, My name is Inigo. . .” Just then the moth took flight, circling the light fixture and landing on the handle of my broom.

I'm pretty sure it will be easier to remodel the bathroom than just repair the damage. The litter box looks like a strainer and there are spots on the tile that no longer match the rest of the decor.

I decided to name the moth Justin Bieber. It appeared overnight and was kind of cute, but all it did was flutter a little and create pandemonium everywhere it went.