It started off normal enough, a cup of tea on the porch swing. Then I decide the weather is now warm enough that I shall shave my dog Reno as he gets over heated. I settle in the backyard and start to shave him. Now, for those of you who don’t know, Reno is a boy dog, but he is a diva. He also has princess feet, very sensitive and he despises having then touched. However, he is a fury creature and thusly has to have them shaved. I spend 30 min arguing with him as he is jerking his feet out of my hand and yipping as if I were beating him with a stick which I may say I was tempted to do.
Finally, I get him to sit still for ten seconds and I ‘m shaving one of his back feet. Apparently he decides I MIGHT be getting too close to his poor toes and jerks his foot, knocking my hand and the trimmer straight into his ball sack.
Now, I did not yell at him for biting me
I don’t blame him, poor baby.
After he bites me and writhes around in agony for several more minutes, he climbs up on my lap like a scared little kid and cuddles, whimpering. Making me cry and feel as if I am the worstest mommy that ever there was.
I decide to give him a break and, after comforting him, put him back on his run, half shaven and looking like he had gotten caught in some kind of machinery. Prompting Pooh to make comments like “Damn barber school students!” which while mean were funny as hell. Plus poor Reno had this lemony expression on his face. I have seen a similar expression on the faces of freshly shorn sheep. But given the fact I had just done something unpleasant to his ball sac I tried to hide my mirth.
Now having not only injured (just slightly but still!) one of my fubabies, I decide to try my hand at yard work. I rake and shovel, things are going well until I decide to get a glass of water. I enter my home and hear an odd hissing noise. What is this? I wonder as I make my way into the kitchen wearing Dollar Tree flip-flops. ( May I point out at this juncture that Dollar Tree flipflops have no traction, this becomes important in a moment.) The hissing noise is louder here and sounds vaguely familiar. I take another step … into three inches of water.
Dear GOD! I panic and turn, intent in making a swift dash to get Pooh, when I discover the aforementioned lack of traction. I slip, trip and land on my ass. Flaying wildly in the rapidly growing puddle that once was my kitchen floor. After two ungainly and (I am sure) undignified attempts to get to my feet I finally stagger to the door open it and calmly say to my wisecracking husband, “Pooh, honey, come here please, you are really going to want to see this.”
For once there is no argument and he comes inside and does what I can only surmise to be some sort of secret male handyman dance, while uttering bad words at the top of his lungs. Then, whipping open the doors under the sink, swears some more and dashes from the house.
What follows is fifteen minutes of me trying to stem the tide, while I can see the top of Pooh’s head bounce back and forth across the kitchen windows, turning the air blue and waving various grips and pliers.
Finally the water stops and I am there; a sodden, fur and grass covered mess. Apparently, I am informed much later, a washer popped off and this led to the Great Flood.
After mopping up, I returned to the great out-doors where I received a splinter of epic proportions, finally finished shaving the dog, got a very weirdly shaped sunburn, (Don’t ask I am not telling) and then collapsed on the porch swing.
If I had any idea, this all would have happened to me this morning I would have never gotten out of the bed.
Reno seems to have forgiven me for the ball sack incident and I am glad. Though between you and me, he can’t figure out how to use the darn things anyway.