And I Lived Happily Ever After, Too, But That Is Probably Thanks To The Wine.
(Okay, before we get started with the current business, I just have to say that: Y'all. Those comments to the last entry? Were absolutely some of the best things to ever hit the internet. Ever! Better than illegally downloadable music! Better than Zappos shoe store! Even better than porn! They were hilarious, and thank everyone for participating. Y'all are the coolest, and you crack me up inordinately.)
Anyway, today's business is something different, and I really hope you like it. Today, y'all are all going to see, for the first time ever, A Whole Nother Side of Miss Doxie. Basically, and do not laugh, but my most secret, most favorite desire is...to write and illustrate children’s books. Yes. And, I would not say "fuck" in them or anything! I swear! I would just really like to do a whole series of stories about the bad dogs, and I've worked on a couple, and it is my dream that maybe one day I can get them published. And I know that it is a difficult market, and children’s book publishing is all competitive and crazy and you can't find an agent and la de da buzzkillers-abound, but...still. It is nice to think about. Because, maybe then I would write books, and maybe write fewer briefs, and then I would be a happier person all around! Isn't that a nice plan? It is a nice plan. And so, it is my secret little dream.
Anyway, I've written and illustrated a few funny little kids’ stories, but I haven't done anything with them. But then on Friday, I was stuck on the phone, on hold with the cable company, and I got to thinking about how I needed to wash the dogs this weekend. And then I started doodling (I am always doodling) about how I needed to wash the dogs this weekend. And then I decided that what the hell, I will doodle a whole entry for y'all about why washing the dogs is absolutely not any fun whatsoever, and is typically made even less fun by the twin demons of "Bo" and "Plotting," and why that completely sucks and leads to bloodshed and involuntary stays in mental asylums.
So, essentially, that's what this is. These are all doodles that I did while I waited on the phone, on a pad of lined, crappy paper. Of course, because I am a nerd, I ended up having to colorize some of the pictures this weekend (using Microsoft PAINT, no less, which was an interesting task) so they would be pretty. Because even with doodles, I am kind of a perfectionist.
And so, in honor of Monday, it is hereby Story Time, and we will all learn the Story of Why We Do Not Wash The Dogs More Often, and you will all be filled with terror. And, while this particular story is certainly not a children’s book, it will give you an idea of the kind of thing I have been working on, all secrety-like. (The children's stories do not involve wine, for example.) And frankly, I'm all embarrassed about even posting this here, because I am a geek, and what if you think it is the crowning point of Lame, but you know. Hopefully, you will not.
Anyway, I hope you like it, and agree that, at the very least, it is better than reading a damn brief, and don't y'all think I should do this with my life? Of course you do! Because it is probably what God intended. And also, it makes ALL of us much, much better looking. I am pretty sure.
After a long day of legaling, I come home from work. And, as I open the front door, I immediately begin to sniff. I smell...dog. I smell dog everywhere. It is super gross.
The odor of Dog is so prevalent, in fact, that it has pretty much taken on a visible cloud form, and I follow this cloud through the house, holding my nose. It leads me directly to the perpetrators, who are fast asleep on the sofa, basking in the glow of their ooky, green stank.
"Perpetrators," I announce, "I think it is time for a B-A-T-H."
But the perpetrators can spell. Their reaction is immediate. And they are not pleased.
Now, as a cardinal rule of washing the dogs, it is important that you do not start with Bo. You never want to start with Bo. If you start with Bo, none of the other dogs will actually get washed, because you will be too busy looking for the Bactine or a telephone so that you can call 911 and get a refresher course in tourniquet-making before you collapse on the floor from blood loss. Consequently, Bo has to be last. This is a helpful rule to remember.
So, bearing this rule in mind, I start with the weakest link of the chain, and lift Pugsley from the sofa. Pugsley is terrified of baths. He is also terrified of "quick movements" and "any type of sound" and also "air." Knowing that he is about to have a B-A-T-H, Puglsey is immediately petrified, and is rendered stiff and plank-like with fear.
I place Puglsey in the sink, and gather the necessary supplies. Necessary supplies include towels, soap, and wine.
Back in the den, the remaining dogs watch the proceedings with great intensity, to the best of their respective abilities. This is never a good sign.
Still, I turn on the water, and start to bathe Pugsley. He is now comatose with terror, and is looking at me like I am preparing to make him into a stew.
As I lather, I glance back at the others. But they have myseriously vanished.
Uh oh, I think. I know what is going on here. This is plotting. And plotting is never, ever good. Plotting is what makes the bleeding happen. Plotting makes the fire department come.
So, leaving the paralyzed Pugsley in the sink, I run to the couch and look for the remaining dogs. They are discovered. Clearly, I am now witnessing Plan A, which again, each dog is carrying out to the best of their respective abilities.
Well, I think. Ha HA. I can handle this particular plan. When I need a dog for washing, I can just thwock him out from under the sofa by a tail. This particular plan blows.
So, pleased with myself, I dash back to the sink. Only someone is not IN the sink anymore. Also, in the last ten seconds, the kitchen has been magically transformed into something resembling a demilitarized zone.
I locate Pugsley in his hiding place, and try to gently coax him back to the sink. But Puglsey is not having it. Seizing every IQ point in his head (four), and every ounce of self-preservation in his terrified, wet body, he leaps from the counter...
And runs like all hell.
The remaining dogs, seeing a soaking Puglsey barreling towards them at top dachshund speed (13,287 mph), scatter in horror, knowing all too well that "wet" is highly contagious. All of a sudden, the whole room is filled with water and panic. The dogs are barking hysterically, Puglsey is leaving a trail of water everywhere, and I am knocked on my keister in the kerfuffle. I am beginning to think that the dogs did not smell so bad after all.
Gimmme, meanwhile, having lost interest in the whole affair, is fast asleep.
Pugsley, overcome by all the excitement and fear, suddenly stops running, and, in the middle of the den, engages poop hunchback stance.
AAHHHH I scream. NO WE DO NOT DO THAT IN HERE NO! NO! NO!
And so I grab him up quick quick quick...
And run for the door quick quick quick
Which causes the other dogs to run for the door quick quick quick, because Outside = Freedom, and also, far greater opportunity for hiding from a B-A-T-H than the stupid sofa, HA HA HA, LADY.
As the other dogs fly past me, Pugsley is placed in the grass, whereupon I expect pooping to occur.
However, Puglsey, immediately upon being released, promptly forgets all about (a) pooping, and (b) the bath. Pugsley is outside! Where it is fun! Hi, outside!
The other dogs, meanwhile, who have forgotten nothing, have hidden themselves deep within the rose bushes, and are looking at me with complete disgust. Hate you, they say. Are not coming out of rosebushes ever, they say.
Inside, Gimmme has started to snore.
I get down on my knees, and try to coax Bo and Tasha from out of the bushes, wondering whether I could just spray them with Febreeze and avoid any future catastrophe. As I am coaxing, however, I notice, in the far corner or the yard, something that fills me with dread.
At the exact same moment, Pugsley's eyes light up with delight. Hello! he says.
Accordingly, he bolts.
And, before I can grab his wet, skinny butt, he is orgasmically rolling in the mud, enjoying himself far more than is legally allowed by either the FDA or OSHA. Officially, the dogs are now ten thousand times dirtier than they were at the beginning of bathtime.
And this is precisely the moment when I give up, and decide that there is absolutely nothing wrong with buying air freshener in bulk, or maybe I will just move, and consequently, I call it a damn day. And the dogs, of course, win again, and live happily, and smellily, ever after.
Happy Monday, everyone! Hope y'all enjoyed, and hope you all have great weeks. I'll be here, hanging out with all my smelly dogs. And hopefully, with plenty of wine.
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