Last night I was musing on the pleasure I managed to squeeze out of sticking two small hooks on the wall, just up from the floor, to thwart one of the dogs in his mission to destroy them. Tonight the hooks are gone as are two small areas of paint where the hooks were attached.
It was nothing to do with the dog, although when I recounted the story of the hooks to my work colleague, she looked at me as if I was mad. Why, she wanted to know, did I hang the hooks just off the ground? Why didn’t I place the hooks at shoulder height where they were easier for a human to reach? Given that my husband has a problem putting laundry in a basket if it has a lid which needs to be lifted first, she has a point. How long could I reasonably expect him to keep hanging his Crocs up out of danger if he had to bend down to do it?
Not long, it turns out. Tonight as I took my shower, I looked at the ‘Croc stop’ – as I had begun to whimsically refer to it – and noticed both Crocs lying beneath the hooks and back on the ground. This was not the dog’s handiwork, I could tell. The human effort required to bend at the waist and elevate the Crocs to safety had proved too much at five this morning when my husband was getting ready for work.
I picked one of the shoes up and hung it gently on its hook. At this point, there was a gentle cracking sound and the shoe fell back down with the hook and a small area of paint which had succumbed to the pressure. Cutting my losses, I decided to take the other hook off before it removed more paint from my wall, but clearly the paint had already made its plans to leave and came off with hook number two. Now the Crocs are on the floor and there are two white patches about a foot off the floor where the hooks used to be.
It is ever thus, as nobody once said. This morning I went to pick up a colleague to give her a lift into work as she was getting her car serviced. Her car is always very clean, whereas mine is full of mud and damp towels and the smell of two dogs who have just been walked and now want to breathe on the windows. I spent $200.00 getting it steam cleaned in December, but the dogs have worked super hard to erase any evidence of that and now it is back to kennel-level squalor.
So last night, in a grim effort to appear like a normal person, I dragged my reluctant vacuum cleaner and its bag of weird attachments into the garage and used the extension chord to plug it into the the kitchen. Then I spent some time brushing and cleaning the passenger seat and footwell, trying to remove all the sand and fur. The dogs are not allowed in the front seat, but somehow stuff ends up there, or on the sides of the seat as they peer between them, paws placed on the front console.
It is winter and I was never going to be able to wash and dry the towels covering the back seat by the morning, so I took them out and shook them free of dirt, and then emptied half a can of Glen 20 air freshener across the back seat area and slammed the doors shut to try and trap the fragrance inside.
Of course it was not a perfect science, these things never are, especially as I had to take the dogs for a walk this morning and so I found myself apologising to my colleague as I picked her up.
‘I am sorry. It kind of smells as though a beer has farted in here.’
‘No problem,’ she said brightly, winding down the window.
At least I had tried, but some weird chemical reaction must taken place when the air freshener hit the smell of wet dog.
I guess the world is just divided into those who are destined to glide about the immaculate rooms of their spotless houses and float to work on a cushion of soft leather seats and others like me whose houses are covered in more fur than paint and whose cars smell like a flatulent ale.
At least the dogs are happy.