Ant In My Pant(s)

Dewie and I were sitting on the porch this morning with our delicious coffee beverages, arguing about whose turn it was to bathe the dog.

“I’m pretty sure I did it last. Remember, because I had to ask you to get her up on the benches because she was being all belligerent and whatnot and she weighs 700 pounds,” Dewie proudly and overconfidently stated.

“That’s true, but you’re forgetting the last time was when I was watching the kids and we tromped through the flooded cornfield. I gave her a bath before we went in the house, Mistaken Wrongington from Incorrectville. Should I do my victory dance now, or wait until you’re covered in soap and dog hair?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot that one.”

“OWWW! Son of a… What the hell?!?” Suddenly the back of my knee is on fire. I start slapping at my pants like a deranged bongo player.

“What’s the matter?”

“Stings! Holy @#$%ing SH@#! For the love of all that is holy get it out!”

“What is it? Is it a bee?”

“I DON”T KNOW!!! I can’t see through my pants!” I frantically pull up my pant leg searching for whatever is trying to murder me.  Nothing. I can’t find anything. I drop the pant leg thinking whatever it was has escaped its horrible cotton prison. Immediately it starts again. “What the hell?! OWWWW! JEEEZ. STUPID #$%^ER!!!!” Alright, now I’m in a panic. I start to take my pants off.

Dewie screams at me, “Where is your underwear?!”

“They’re pajamas! Who wears underwear with pajamas?!”

“Well at least go in the house first!” 

“What if it gets away inside the house?! It’s MELTING MY FLESH OFF! Do you want that crawling into the bed?!

“You’re not showing your ass to the neighborhood! We’ll catch it. GO INSIDE!”

I stumble in the door, desperately tugging at my pants. I brush my legs in case it’s still stuck to me.  My knee pit is covered in welts, but the perpetrator is still on the lam. I turn the pants inside out and a single winged ant is crawling around on the inside of one leg. One ant. Sometimes I hate Florida. 

Dog Business

It was lovely outside yesterday. For some strange reason we have enjoyed cooler weather this week with a refreshing breeze and bright, sunny skies. My favorite time of day is late afternoon when the sun is starting to sink and the earth is lit in a beautiful golden light. It’s like nature’s dimmer switch. It was on such a perfect day and such a perfect time that Dewie and I set off on our nightly dog walk. Scout had already obediently relieved herself in the vacant lot on our street and we were on the back side of the block when we approached the house with actual sod. The grass is so appealing that Scout can’t help but throw herself to the ground and roll around in it. She does this nearly every single day.

A couple of years ago, the house with the sod was one of the unlucky ones on the block that suffered the wrath of the falling tree epidemic. Though the house itself has been nicely repaired, it has remained strangely empty while its residents occupy what can only be described as a two story shed. I don’t know the whole story there, but I would wager that it involves jackassery of the highest caliber and a family whose collective IQ might form one normal person.

Yesterday, as Scout dropped to roll, I noticed there was a scowling man standing beside his truck outside the barn-shed with his arms crossed. Thinking nothing of it, I waved at him and went about my conversation with Dewie.

As we walked closer to him, the man yelled out, “Keep your damn dog out of my yard!” A little taken aback, I initially thought that this man must be someone I know who is messing with me. I try to get a good look at him, but he is in no way familiar.

So, I call back, “I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”

“I SAID KEEP YOU DAMN DOG OUT OF MY YARD!! I’m tired of stepping in dog shit when I park my truck over there!” Ok, so clearly I don’t know this guy and he is a first class douche bag. We pass this house every day. Scout rolls in his yard every day. She has never pooped here, and there has never been a truck parked there.

“She wasn’t actually in your yard, and she has never crapped by the road in front of your house.”

“I was standing here the whole time! I saw what she did!!” Ok, now the adrenaline is flowing. It’s go time.

“If you were standing there the whole time, you clearly don’t know the difference between crapping and rolling. Besides, she is on a 6 foot leash. The city owns 5 feet from the street. Since you were standing there the whole time (yes, I did imitate him when I said that. Sometimes anger brings our my inner 5 year old) then you could clearly see that my feet were on the street, so technically it is not possible for her to have been in your yard (yes I did it again, I know)!” It’s then that I notice that I have actually taken several giant steps toward the man and I am actually standing in his driveway. The man pushes off the truck he was leaning on and hobbles into the house. His limp is pronounced and his hip seems to be the culprit. The thought actually enters my head that I could probably take him. I mean his balance isn’t that good. I am strangely disappointed when he walks away. How dare he walk away from me when I’m winning!

We spend the remainder of our walk talking about the crazy man and what a horribly unhappy little person he must be. I very briefly consider taking a dump in a bucket to leave on the edge of his yard so he is clear about what crap actually is. It occurs to me that in a sick way I actually enjoyed the encounter. I am getting confrontational in my old age. If things keep progressing this way, I have a feeling I’m going to be one of those mean, belligerent old people. Fortunately for me, elderly people get a pass on terrible behavior. I think I’m going to need it. 

Bath Battle

Admittedly, we are a little lax with the general hygiene of our golden retriever in the winter time. When it’s warm outside, she gets a bath roughly every other week. I make her a little platform out of picnic table benches; pull out the garden hose and the whole job takes 15 minutes. It’s so hot here in Florida that we’re usually both mostly dry by the time I clean up my mess and head back in the house. On occasion we’ll wash her in the back of the truck then take her for a spin dry afterwards. Either way, bathing her is really not a problem.

Being February, poor Scout has been pretty stank-a-licious for the better part of two weeks. Just thinking about how long it’s been since she’s had a bath fills me with shame. But it’s just so…hard. Knowing it was my turn to tackle this task; I took a deep breath and set the wheels in motion. Let me set the stage for you…

Our house was built in the late 60’s. While it has many rooms, it should really only have about five. Total. The bathroom is among the tiniest of the prison cell sized spaces. You can literally stand in the middle of the room and touch both walls. If you sat sideways, you could soak your aching feet in the tub while simultaneously dropping a deuce. Seriously. Scout, being a shelter dog came with a complete set of bazaar, neurotic behaviors, one of which is a panicky fear of confined spaces. Unless it’s thundering, then we can’t get her out from behind the couch. With that being said, I go about preparing for battle.

I gather dog towels and a dog wash cloth from her basket. And no, I don’t mean that they are special doggy products, they’re just worn out and too gross for people.  I leave the doggy shampoo, there’s only one soap strong enough to cut this kind of funk.  I grab the Dawn from the kitchen sink. With the goods stashed in the bathroom, I call the dog. I try to sound as upbeat and excited as possible. She walks up to the bathroom door, then fast-walks past it. I stand outside the door, blocking her exit and try again. This time she dances her little clicky nails just out of my reach and emits a pitiful whine. I manage to shove her in the tiny room and close the door. This is where Scout’s skills really shine. In the four feet of space between the door and the tub, she demonstrates straight up civil rights type passive resistance. She literally lies down and goes completely limp. Trying to move her when she gets like this is futile. She weighs nearly 80 pounds and it almost seems as if she is somehow holding onto the floor. I step in the tub and call her like we’re going to have a frolicking good session of playtime if she will only move forward two feet.  Alas, she is neurotic, not stupid. She simply looks away because apparently if she can’t see me, I go away. I finally manage to pull two feet into the tub, the rest of her following because she doesn’t want to enter the tub chin first. I am already tired and sweaty and we have only just begun.

I get the sprayer down and start hosing her down. She does not like this. She backs up as far as she can into the back of the tub, forcing me to arc the water just to get her wet. Having nowhere to put the sprayer, I let it dangle while I grab her two front legs and pull her toward me as quickly as I can because the sprayer is whipping in wild circles, wetting everything in its path. Now the floor is wet. I kneel to keep from busting my ass, but as I mentioned before I am having to work around the toilet. Every time I turn to reach for something like soap or to scoop the hair out of the drain, Scout manages to slowly creep one leg out as if she’s going to make a break for it.  About halfway through I just peel off my wet clothes and get in the tub with her. She tolerates the rest of the bath, finally realizing that she’s not getting out. She’s clean, but in order to dry her off I have to let the water drain from the tub. This consists of about 10 minutes of alternating between letting it drain and scooping the collecting wad of hair clogging it up. Meanwhile Scout is dancing and trying to bull her way past me. 

Finally the tub is drained and the dog is dried and released. I survey the damage. There’s a kiddie pool on the floor around the tub. There are wads of wet hair everywhere. The tub looks like it needs a good shave. I’m standing in my underpants, covered in wet dog hair. There’s no hot water left. In her hasty escape to freedom, Scout knocked over the Dawn and it is adding festive bubbles to the puddles on the floor. Scout has shaken herself all the way down the hallway so walls and floor are spattered with dog water. I legs are literally trembling from squatting for 20 minutes in a row. I go get Scout her chewy treat, get her situated on a towel somewhere, then I get myself situated on a towel somewhere. It was my turn to bathe her, not to clean the bathroom. 

Dog Breath

The storm is raging. The thunder is shaking the house and the flashes of lightening are lighting up the room like a flood light. The roof has dissolved and even though I am still in bed I can feel the rain on my face and the wind is causing the hair that has escaped from my ponytail to tickle my ears and neck. A gust of wind shifts my whole body. I pull the covers up closer around my neck and peek out through the one eye that’s not buried in the pillow.  It is raining, but the roof is fine. The rain on my face is the steady drip of drool coming from the mouth of a golden retriever on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I smell the distinct odor of gravy train as my mind shakes off the cobwebs of sleep and the gusts of wind become puffs of panting dog breath. Lightning flashes brightly and the crack of a close strike rocks the house and the dog actually tries to burrow her head under my neck. I look at the clock. 5:45AM. Fine. I’m up.

I push 75 pounds of hairy dead weight off of me and head to the tiny half bath that is attached to our bedroom. Scout is tight on my heels. As I run the water to wash the dried puddles of dog drool off of my face, Scout squeezes her giant self between my feet and the sink. I try to nudge her out of the way, but she is having none of it. Like a child throwing a tantrum, she has actually gone limp. Passive resistance. You have to respect that. I manage to wash my face while leaning over the dog and move on to the kitchen.

I grab the coffee pot and walk to the sink to fill it. As I am walking back to the coffee maker Scout walks right in front of me and leans against my legs. I stumble and splash the water onto the floor. I catch my balance…wait, nope, I’m going down. I have a glass coffee pot in one hand and the dog on the opposite side so I have no way of catching myself. I have no choice but to tuck and roll. The coffee pot bounces once…twice…I squeeze my eyes shut and wince at the third bounce knowing this one is going to break it and I will have to venture out in the rain to get my morning coffee. Scout has the audacity to whimper like I’m frightening her with my shenanigans. The cats scatter like water on a hot skillet, turning over the dog’s water in the process. There wasn’t a crash so I open my eyes and see the coffee pot is sitting upright spinning victoriously. But there are huge puddles of water everywhere. I pull my knees up to my chest and just breathe for a minute. I take in deep breaths and let go of the anger that makes me want to punch my dog in the face. Lightening crashes again. Scout nudges her head between my calves and the backs of my thighs. I just sigh and the reach over and scratch her head.