Yesterday, I was mopping the day’s mud from the living room floor when Tim came home from work. We looked down at the hardwood and laughed at layer upon layer of footprints. With the break in the weather, mopping can be a thrice daily task. The dogs just keep on tracking globs, smears and grass hunks through the dog door.
I sighed, “Sometimes I think it’s useless to mop before the boys settle in for the night.”
Tim added, “Sometimes I think it’s useless to mop until August.”
Looking exhausted and plagued by respiratory issues, Tim headed out to clean up the dog yard. As he reached for the door, I tried to stop him.” Let me do it today. C’mon. You look like shit.” I’m pretty sure I smirked as those words left my mouth. Tim is a handsome and typically healthy guy so I don’t get to say that very often.
Rallying a smile, he said, “I look like shit, feel like shit, an I’m off to shovel shit.” Then, signaling with his hand like a traffic guard to stay back, he assured me, “I’ve got this shit covered,” and out the door he went.
Taking Tim at his word, I went back to mopping as the dogs charged outside to meet him at the gate. Then, while wringing out the last of the mud, I heard a rapid BANG, BANG, BANG on the dining room window. My head snapped around. One of the kittens was on the kitchen counter. Tim stopped knocking and pointed emphatically in that direction. Questioning such an intense reaction to something so small, I reached for the kitten and lifted him off the surface. That’s when I heard the muffled words through the glass.
“Close the French doors! Emmett is coming!!!”
What sounded like a heard of elephants charging through my sunroom was, in actuality, our white dog, Emmett, escaping another throw-down by Shamus, our Newf. I beat him to the French doors and closed off the freshly cleaned room. When I turned back around, it all became clear.
Emmett proudly displayed his decorated behind like a badge of honor as he marched through the house. Shamus soon followed Emmett inside, taking credit for his work and wearing his own mud badge of honor – mostly between his enormous webbed feet. Somewhere on this mountain, a troop of dogs played the bugle. I was sure of it.
Piling the pups into the tub (separately) for a big scrub down, somehow we all came clean. I wiped the last of the mud from the bathroom walls, pulled the fur from the drain, hung the towels to dry and fist bumped Tim for a tag-team job well done. Then, exhausted and smelling of sweet kiwi shampoo, we all fell into bed.