Yesterday Gustavo had a therapy dog visit. It’s not as easy as it looks, having a Certified Pet Assisted Therapy Dog. There’s stuff you gotta do. First thing is, get the dog tired. You gotta go down to the beach, run him hard, chase those sticks until all the dogs start to look a bit parched and peaked. Like that ever happens. But you gotta at least take the edge off, so he isn’t fidgety and wild with the old folks. Maybe he could be like that poodle that just lays quietly on laps? The other therapy dogs are so, um, still? But wasn’t happening yesterday. The fog rolled in, was nice and cool, and the dogs were tireless. Uh oh.
So Gustavo is dripping and sandy and needs a bath. Quick dog bath. Clock is ticking, was too long at beach. Throw the dogs in the front yard to dry off, and to try and get Timmy to eat some food in peace. Where is Timmy? Wedged between the waterheater and the dryer, just standing there, waiting to not be stuck. Poor Timmy. Go check on if wet dog is drying. Therapy dogs required to be dry. Only 2 dogs in front yard, the wet one is missing. Augh! Under the house. In the dirt and cobwebs and whatever else is under houses. Making the special noises ala screaming monkey and dashing about under our entire floor plan, subterranean style. Get him out through the crack he went in.
What is on his previously clean neck? Some kind of foulness excreted by something that apparently also likes running around under the house? That was maybe getting chased around under the house? Dunno. No TIME for this DAMN DOG! You are a THERAPY DOG and I am pretty sure the other therapy dog people are not giving their good and still and clean therapy dogs a second bath when they should be leaving the house! Industrial strength rubber gloves required for bath number two.
And then like a flash you get out of the shower and you put on your pants and there is a hole in them. By the back pocket. That would surely show your underpants to old folks if you wear them. It is a suspicious hole as if someone discovered dog treats in that pocket and chewed their way to them and because you are not always tidy and maybe fell into bed at midnite leaving them on the floor likely it was a renegade small dog who has ruined the pants. Not horrid, ill fitting Gap Jeans but expensive ones, purchased on sale but still. The best ones. Can not have an underpants showing hole for visiting the old folks.
And so you are running into the bedroom to find new pants and the shirts stayed in the dryer for days so are all wrinkled but there is no time and you find some other pants and howling just starts on it’s own again and you can only see small black dogs, wherever you look. Like have they multiplied? There may be no car keys but there are hundreds of small black dogs. You cannot tell them apart but one is chewing a pen that was procured from the desk? The counter? STOP THE HOWLING and there is Timmy. A little calm in the storm, but having his own tiny storm, spinning in circles on the kitchen floor. He just spins, and spins, and spins, and spins. Not unlike so many of the people that we’re off to go sit with, maybe to see if they can stop their own kind of spinning for long enough to pet the soft little dog.