I am continually shying away from sharing Hows. I don’t know, it just seems like my favorite advice has always been to throw caution to the wind and dig your own ditch. But here’s a story:
I dog-sat for my mother-in-law this weekend. She is a lovely tiny Oreo-spotted dog that doesn’t bark, a rare breed if ever there was one. I think she is part cat, perhaps, but still. It was an adventure.
I am pretending that Bernie and George loved the extra company, but what do I know? I’m no dog. They were tolerable.
I will say nothing of the state of our yard.
We took walks and played catch and fought over bones, and Bee insisted they all receive dog massages before bedtime. And then.
Bernie, ever the firstborn, ever the high maintenance pet, ever the squeaky wheel, had had enough of the chaos after two days, and when the clock turned 2:31am on an otherwise quiet Saturday night, Bernie retreated to the bed’s underside and began vomiting uncontrollably.
Do you know what is kept under our bed? Nothing of use. There are old college sweatshirts and a sentimental pair of flannel shorts (I do not know how flannel shorts can become sentimental, but there you have it). There is a pile of Bee’s stuffed animals that have been loved (shredded) by George. A spare pair of tennis shoes of which I continue to justify, regardless of my status as a diligent non-runner. Hiking boots, same. There are 84 canvas totes. Good gracious, the totes.
Underneath our bed is the place junk goes to hide so I can no longer lecture myself on why I am hoarding it. I mean, surely if I were to witness 84 canvas totes in daylight, I would take issue. Surely I would drudge to the garage to gather the Goodwill bin, and quickly now.
Bernie did the hard work for me, it seems, as this is the new rule:
If a dog were to expel on your belongings, would you take the necessary steps to revive any of it? Would you scrub the leather, take a toothpick to the brass buckles, head to the dry cleaners?
Or would you throw the baby out with the retch water?
If the latter, here’s a thought: perhaps it has little worth to you. Perhaps it is not of great value, and perhaps you will potentially be more at peace if you save the dog the trouble and just gather the Goodwill bin now.
I don’t know. I kept the flannel shorts.