So, as usual, my alarm went off this morning. But, unlike most people, my alarm is furry and it comes in the form of two large dogs forcefully throwing their bodies against my bedroom door repeatedly with loud clunking noises at 5am until I begrudgingly peel my eyelids off my face and emerge from the bedroom to feed them. But, this morning the dog alarm went off at 4:30am. I was a bit miffed, but since I was leaving for a business trip the following day and I had a lot to get done, I figured I would comply.
So the dogs ate and I let them out to do their thang (They’re about as regular as friggin Jamie Lee Curtis in those Activia commercials. We get it Jamie, you’re super happy because yogurt is the one thing you found to make you poop. God, I am not looking forward to menopause.).
And, unfortunately for me, the real reason why they chose to wake me at such an ungodly hour (my dogs, not the Activia people) was revealed when the barking became so loud that I had to go out in the yard to try to shut them up so my white trash neighbor dude didn’t decide to go all NRA target practice on them. And there was Rosie, rolling around in the yard, trying desperately to remove the skunk spray from her eyes. And I had no idea what was happening. Have you ever smelled skunk close up before? It actually didn’t smell like skunk at all at first. It’s so potent, it actually smells like tires. I shit you not. I’m standing in my yard at 4:30am all foggy-brained, wondering why the hell my dog is rolling in the grass with such desperation and trying to figure out where the Firestone people decided to set up shop.
Finally part of the dumb ass cloud passed over me and I realized what had happened and I screamed like someone was bludgeoning me with a hammer. So I grabbed the dogs and yanked them into the house so basically they could drag their skunk-smelling asses all over everything we own. Outstanding idea, Lisa! (I did warn you that only part of the dumb ass cloud had passed.)
Much to my half-awake chagrin, I had no choice but to begin the bathing proceedings immediately. I normally bring my dogs to the groomer because when you’re 5’2″ and a generally small-framed person (boobs don’t count), bathing a 75 pound dog and a 65 pound dog who fight you every step of the way is utter insanity. Like, if you sought expert counsel on this, they would tell you it’s a more advisable option to punch yourself in the face as hard as you can with an anvil for an hour and a half, then lift a 15 ton rock and throw yourself off a 500 foot cliff, and you’d probably fare a lot better. But I really didn’t have much of a choice here. And of course, I didn’t have any of the things on hand to bathe a dog that had been skunked (dish soap, hydrogen peroxide and baking soda mixture) so I just used dish soap and hoped for the best.
So, I tossed Rosie into the tub first. Rosie’s whole strategy is to make herself as horribly sad-looking as possible, even though she is a Labrador retriever who loves to swim in any damn body of water she gets near. Like, even to the point of once in Florida when she was five months old she got off the leash and went swimming in an alligator-infested reservoir and my Dad and I were contemplating going in after her (This whole story is 100% not a joke or remotely exaggerated). Bottom line: I’m not buying the sad tub act and your ass owes me after all the gray hairs I got from that alligator stunt. So yeah. Nice try. Suck it up.
After doing some fancy footwork to block Rosie from jumping out of the tub, drying her off, getting her out, draining the tub, unclogging the drain of wads of black lab hair, I started the real insanity: CHILI. (Dun, dun, Dunnnnnnnn!!!!!!)
I find her all curled up, on my down comforter. Oh, fucking fantastic. The dog who refuses to go on my bed because jumping up scares her, has now chosen to go on my bed to soothe herself (oh, the irony) and gotten skunk all over the one thing I absolutely loathe washing because taking it out of the dryer resembles what I imagine a duck would look like if it spontaneously imploded. So I stick the comforter in the washer, because once again, I don’t really have a lot of choices here, and begin the process of wrangling the dog who hates bathing so much that she behaves like a bucking bronco if I get her anywhere near the tub.
This is how it went.
I leashed her and pulled her and that didn’t work. I had to pick her up about six times, because she kept wriggling out of my arms. So you have about 130 pounds of woman with little upper body strength holding 65 pounds of dog fighting for her life, which is like an equation to confound most physicists, and all this is happening before coffee consumption on little sleep. And then as soon as I would pick her up and get a good grip on her to get her into the bathroom, she would lodge her paws outside the door jam in the manner of Bugs Bunny attempting to be pulled by Wile E. Coyote through a door where instead Bugs proceeds to stretch his body inward instead of remove his feet from the door jam, and therefore successfully prevent going in. Chili had become a cartoon for your amusement, People. It was like an I Love Lucy episode, except with a lot more screaming, cursing, and dog hair, and less Cuban-accented punch lines.
By that point, with all the dog wrestling, I had had such a strenuous workout so early in the morning that was beginning to feel very proud and fancy myself one of these ultra-motivated 4:30am gym rats with abs you could grate cheese on, who teaches cross fit, boot camp, and cardio kick boxing before most of us have even, like, had our first morning pee-pee. You know, someone who has a name like “Kielyahnah” (and she really drags out the “ahh”), that gets cutely perturbed when no one can spell it right. “Like, OMG, why is this so hard guyssssss?!?” And everyone kind of looks at her and shakes their head because she’s so someone named “Kielyahnah”. But, with a name like that, no one would take her seriously even if she had a real job; but it doesn’t really matter because she will never have a real job because she’s kind of a moron and her entire skill set involves making people want to do her or be her. So you want to punch her, but you also want to be her (or do her). Bitch.
So um, yeah. Chili. Finally got her in the bath. She wasn’t loving it. But it wasn’t nearly as bad once she was in as when I was trying to get her in. (I know there’s a sexual innuendo in there somewhere, dammit.).
When I finally finished with both dogs, and my back felt like someone drove a Mack Truck through it, this is what the tub looked like (I’d already semi cleaned it after Rosie):
The bathroom floor was on another level entirely. This is what my floor looks like on a normal day, for the purposes of comparison. This is a pattern, not hair:
And this grossness, worthy of some kind of Guinness Book of World Record acknowledgement–or at least many Guinness BEERS I could consume after the kind of morning this had been, was the post dog fiasco version. This is hair:
Even more delicious.
So, I busied my little now 6am coffee and sleep-deprived, mumbling curse words like Yosemite Sam self to cleaning the bathroom.
Then I moved on to trying to Febreeze the shit out of every open space in my home that the dogs may have touched the air in or near. You know that commercial where the people are blindfolded and they are in, like, a pile of horse shit and and covered in frat party puke and someone sprays Febreeze and they always guess they’re in Heaven sitting next to Jesus in spring time or something? Yeah, no. Because Febreeze sprayed on top of skunk equals Fe-skunk. Like how you went in the bathroom right after Jamie Lee Curtis had her Activia and she sprayed Glade thinking it would take care of the odor and now it just smells a different kind of disgusting? Yup, that.
So I went downstairs into the laundry room to get the down comforter and clean up the feathers from what I can only assume was the imploded duck (sorry buddy). And it was so bad that even after I cleaned up the whole damn thing, feathers still showed up like those annoying relatives who came late to the reunion just to get Aunt Sue’s cookies (Mmm, that’s not a joke, my Aunt Sue’s cookies are amazing.). But these feathers showed up in the oddest places.
Like here, next to my treadmill. I can only assume the feather perverts were looking for Kielyahnah. I bet they were trying to find their way into her thong. Sorry boys, she doesn’t work out here; only brains, cellulite and sarcasm are allowed in this house.
So, I come back upstairs covered in feathers and self-loathing, and I see my darling dogs, sitting by the door asking to go out. All unassumingly, like this:
“Hi Mom. We are wet. We want to go back outside and chase more things with severe consequences and roll in more disgustingness, for we are dogs, and we are here to annoy the shit out of you!!!!!! Mwahahahahhaha!!!!!”
And I just about broke. Words came out of my mouth that I didn’t even know existed. I don’t think anyone has even invented them yet. I was thankful I wasn’t Drew Barrymore in the Firestarter. Or someone with Tourette’s in church. (Who am I kidding, I may as well be that on a normal day.)
Anyway, let’s recap here. I’d been up since 4:30am. I had to leave for a business trip the following day and I had roughly 956 things to do. I’d been wrestling dogs for hours, cleaning up wads of wet dog hair and feathers in inexplicable places that just wouldn’t go away, the skunk smell permeated everything with a nasty odor of hatred (not unlike terrorism really), and I’d had no coffee or sleep. I was so tired that I had, quite literally, just attempted to put both my contact lenses into the same damn eye, and even worse, didn’t figure it out until I realized I couldn’t see out of either eye properly. Ain’t nothing like a little dose of my own stupidity to get me to a point of extreme WTF-ness. Oh, and did I mention I looked like this?
I am actually covered in water here but I only took a head shot because this shirt is not only wet but incredibly threadbare and, well, this isn’t THAT kind of website. But yeah, check me out. Sweaty, angry, drenched. I am one sexy ass bitch. I mean, it really amazes me that my brief foray into the world of modeling a decade past didn’t take off like wild fire. I mean, clearly, the modeling world is crazy.
So how did the story wind up, you ask? Well, I fell back to sleep for a little while and when I woke up to go to work, the dogs were dry, and still smelled like fucking skunk. So my groomer is a better person than the Dalai Lama as far as I’m concerned and she fit me in at the last minute and got me out just in time to make a meeting with a client. My house still smells like skunk and I’ve accomplished about 1/3rd of the things I needed to do today, but my dogs smell fine now thanks to Her Holiness Sally, owner of Purrfect Pooch, and I bought all the skunk-smell removal supplies I need to clean the grossness in the morning before my flight out.
That is, if I make it until then. It is very likely you’ll find me huddled in the corner in the fetal position rocking back and forth muttering, “Damn skunk, dogs, fucking Jamie Lee Curtis and her public pooping problems, Luuuuucy, you’ve got some ‘splaining to do!” If that happens, just escort me into my room and put me to bed. Call my boss and tell him I’m too sick to make the training. And do me a big favor and entertain my dogs for me for a while. In some way that doesn’t involve skunks.
And yeah, I covered her. It was the dead of winter when I took this. She likes to be warm. And I’m a 38 year old childless woman who probably biologically needs to mother something. Don’t judge me.
Rosie, Aka “Turkey”, “Turk”, “The Turk”. Fireworks. They aren’t friends. We talked it out and I think she felt better. The first step is admitting you have a problem.