Greetings, WYMOP fans!
I'm writing this late at night, and not certain I'll finish before Monday is over, so be prepared for a sudden stop, and please keep your hands inside the vehicle at all times.
I was working in the back yard yesterday, replacing the fence used to keep in the three small dogs currently living with my son. These three dogs are wonderful gardeners and landscapers, apparently: nowhere on my property is there grass any greener than that in the dogs’ yard. It’s green, and thick, and lush and . . . well fertilized. Very well fertilized. On a daily basis. From three dogs.
So, by the time I was done working for the day, my boots were fairly well covered with, uh, dog fertilizer. Pounds of it. I put my tools away up in the shed behind the house, and all I had left to do was bring the shop-vac in through the back door and down into the garage before it was pasta time. I could see the spaghetti pot sitting on the stove through the sliding glass door, and I was hungry. I kicked off my boots at the edge of the back deck so as not to track ‘fertilizer’ all over the house—no socks, why wreck ‘em like that—scooped up my big old shop-vac, went in the house and headed downstairs to put the vac away. I headed straight into the laundry room without hesitation, knowing the motion-sensor would kick the lights on after a stride or two, just thinking about that pot-o-pasta waiting for me in the kitchen.
Thinking about it, that is, until my bare foot came down on a squishy, pungent lump of ‘fertilizer’ one of the dogs had left on the laundry room floor.
Now, I have been happy before. I have been joyous and beaming. I have been frothing and overflowing with cheer. Right then, though, I was not beaming. I was not joyous. And though I was frothing, it was not with cheer.
I was not happy.
I tromped through the laundry room and into the garage like an angry Fred Flintstone, grumbling and barefoot, dropped off the shop-vac, and headed right out to the front yard so I could wipe that foot clean. I was in the front yard, practically moonwalking about the place in an effort to clean my sole, when traffic in the street beside me slowed, then stopped.
Jeeze, I thought. I’m good, but I’m not that good. For the sake of the crowd, however, I threw a couple of pirouettes into my anti-fertilizer dance routine. Give the crowd what they like, is what I always say.
That’s when I saw the small dog, a very ladylike little Shih Tzu, strolling across the street,
She was obviously unaccustomed to traffic, and was going to get killed.
Judging my foot to be fertilizer free enough, I dashed into the house to slam my tender toes into my sandals before running across the yard and down to the street, a box of Milk Bones for small dogs in hand, preparing to bribe the little poochie princess to my side.
She was nowhere to be seen.
A neighbor across the street leaned out her front door, pointing up the hill beside my house, shouting something that sounded, over the renewed traffic noise, like “Jaa raa bookie da-daa!” I got the gist, and ran uphill, Milk Bones box rattling in my hand. I was about halfway up the hill when she turned and saw me, and began to cuss me out, in her little doggy way, for daring to follow along after her. She had gotten through “who the hell do you think you are,” and “what the hell do you think you’re doing,” and was just getting into “ . . . and you can just turn yourself around and walk on ho—” when she was interrupted by her little friend.
And I do mean little. The Yorkshire Terrier that bounded spasmodically across a nearby lawnThat was what came sproinging across the grass, huffing little breathless barks at me, like someone in the last stages of emphysema who's just heard a good joke.
Well, small and smaller headed out into the neighborhood, staying just ahead of me and eschewing the biscuits I was offering. I followed them across the street and into a yard, where they seemed to settle down as if they owned the place. When a woman came out to ask what the hell I was doing in her yard, I countered with “Are these yours?” indicating the sprawled wanderers. They were not, but she did have news: they belonged to the people across the street, the house where Shih Tzu the entitled had collected Yorkie the not-so massive.
Leaving her to try to collect the curious canines, I ran across the street to alert the pet owners that they seemed to have lost control of the situation . . .
. . . and that's where I'll have to slap a big old To Be Continued. It's late, and it's a cute dog story. I want to do it justice, but I'm going to bed. The good news for you is I'll finish it tomorrow. Look at that! Two blogs this week for the price of one.
Talk to you tomorrow!