My sweet husband, knowing I’d had a rough week, promised that he’d quietly get our daughters out of the house on Saturday and let me sleep in. Y’all? Sleeping in is my nirvana. He didn’t have to tell me twice of his plans before I popped a melatonin, put on a sleep mask and drifted off to dream.
If I’d thought ahead, I’d have put on an adult undergarment so I could sleep even later. But, my bladder woke me just before bursting. I exited the bathroom to discover a quiet house. Our house hadn’t been that quiet since my single days—I was a quiet and shy single lady. That’s my story.
I stayed in my pajamas and turned my television on something that wasn’t Nick, Disney or PBS Kids. I opened the front door to let the unseasonably cool Oklahoma wind waft through the quietness. I grabbed the laptop and began surfing Facebook, intent on doing nothing but taking all the quizzes. Before I even found out my super power, Bo the Dumb Dog and JJ the Dumber Dog burst through the back room and invaded the living room. I set the computer down and dashed toward the wide-open front door just in time to be knocked down by them both as they made their way out into the neighborhood, taking my quiet Saturday morning with them. Dumb dogs.
I wasn’t so concerned about Bo. Bo, alas, always comes back. Plus, it was sprinkling. Bo hates rain. Before I could even get up from the foyer floor, Bo was back inside. JJ, however, rarely gets out. He has no street smarts—he’d be like those poor Amish kids in the big city. He wouldn’t know how to get back home and he’d probably try some catnip from the neighbor’s calico and maybe even dance to the devil’s music. I would have to go get him.
I grabbed the leash (because the last time I tried to lead JJ by his collar alone, he almost pulled my arm off, those black labs are rough), slipped on my daughter’s flip flops and set out to snag and bring home JJ. I wasn’t too worried about it because the poor dog has hip dyspepsia, bless his heart, how hard could it be to catch that big, ol’ fumbling lab?
I’ll answer that question for you: Very hard. Very hard indeed.
Our first stop was the neighbor’s front door, where he marked his territory. I made a mental note to give them an extra big jar of hot chocolate mix when the holidays rolled around. But, he escaped my grasp and headed into their garage. I just about got him on the other side of their motorcycle before he took off again, jarring the motorcycle just enough to give me a full-blown heart attack. Then I saw that it was just a Suzuki, and my heart rate slowed some.
Next we toured the neighbor’s trash bins, where JJ turned over three cans. I realize now, it was part of his grand scheme to buy himself time, knowing full well that I would be obligated to pick up their trash and right their bins.
Good news, though. The other neighbor’s dog had pooped quite a bit in their own front yard, so JJ had to stop and sniff every last pile of dog poop. I’m disgusted to report that he even tasted some. I know: Go ahead. Say it aloud, “Ewwww…” But, it was because of his tasting that I was able to grab him as he sniffed at the neighbor’s bushes.
I grabbed him, and the skies opened up and poured rain down upon our already sopping wet earth. With the downpour, JJ sought shelter by crawling further into the bushes. Resolved to win this fight, I, in my nightshirt, boxer shorts and NOTHING ELSE, still holding tight to his collar, crawled right after him. As nothing but my calves stuck out from underneath the bushes, I swiftly clicked the leash onto his collar and began pulling him out.
JJ, being a dog with a sixties soul, played dead and refused to walk with me. With the rain pelting our leaf-snaggled selves, I picked him up and carried his 100-pound dog body back to our house. I only exposed my myself once, twice, three times. I think Lionel Richie wrote a song about that sometime in the eighties.
JJ began squirming as we approached our front door. I set him down, leash wrapped tightly around my wrist, readjusted my shirt, and grabbed the door handle… The locked door handle. Upon hearing us at the front door, Bo, on the inside, jumped up and looked at us through the window. I, on the outside, secretly cussed the dogs. And by secretly, I mean I cussed loudly like a sailor.
Next time my husband offers me some alone time, it better be at a nice, plush hotel—with a no-pets policy.
Heather Davis is an Oklahoma momma and a writer, and is still looking for ways to relax. She’s the author of the TMI Mom books, available on Amazon. She and her husband live in Bartlesville with their two dogs, two cats and two daughters.
