I’m positively thrilled to be showering in the nude again.
My wife took our three kids to a swim meet over the weekend, leaving me to tend to the flock. Penny Lane and I showered together three times over the weekend (it’s not that kind of blog, she’s a Golden Retriever) as she has to be washed with special flea shampoo for several days. When the family is home, it’s easy enough to complete this chore with the backyard hose. With no one else home and me stuck with just two arms, well it was shower city for the puppy.
The process was simple but carefully planned. I’d get her soaped and rinsed, then a quick dry for both of us while still in the shower. Once dry enough, I’d walk her through our bedroom, out the already open door to the outside and for the thorough scrub dry on the back deck. What could go wrong?
When pressure is applied to the handle on a sliding shower door, well, it slides. The door doesn’t care if said pressure is applied by hand or paw. My back was to the door as I adjusted the shower nozzle. It was then I heard the fateful sliding sound. I turned just in time to see the dog’s soapy caboose race from the bathroom into our bedroom. Figuring I could catch her quickly, I grabbed my towel and raced after her, shower still running.
Penny’d had enough of this shower business and was ready to exact a measure of revenge. She sprinted out of the house and around to the side yard. I would now have to round up a slippery dog on the kids’ basketball court. That would be ten minutes of fun. As it turns out, I wasn’t so lucky. Like most homes, our side yard leads to a front yard and someone had left the gate open. Often one of the kids – well, no they were out of town – I guess it could have been… Jeez, this is embarrassing. Well, assigning blame really isn’t the point here. Penny had very deftly put me into a tough position with no good choice: quickly retreat to the house for a minimum of clothing and risk that a six month old puppy get hit by a car, or, door number two, race through my neighborhood soaking wet, covered in flea shampoo with just a towel wrapped around me.
I chose door number two and ran dead into an octogenarian convention in the street. Two women were walking small dogs and the third was riding a bicycle of sorts with the seat set low and the pedals out in front of the rider. Completing the package were a set of stabilizing (read training) wheels and flag on a flimsy rod rising seven feet in the air. Then again, who am I to make fun of a safety conscious senior when I scamper into the street looking like a cross between wet dog and Breck girl. Fortunately, the little dogs held Penny’s attention long enough that I could recover her at the bottom of my driveway.
Two showers followed while the family was away and I was in a bathing suit for both of them. Fool me once, Penny… Troubling is that my mailbox seems to be the new gathering place for silver haired folk in sweatsuits.
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