Sunday Kinds of Fun

After our earlier dog park adventures, Scout and Zoey hung around while B and I worked on a project in our master bathroom. Since most of this work was of the measuring-and-drilling kind of persuasion, I basically hung around for moral support and the occasional, “Are you sure that’s level?” comment kind of contributions. To entertain myself, I snapped some photos of the girls. Below are my favorites.


Afterwards, it was time to give Scout a bath. She’d gotten rather yucked up after her romp in the dog park, which was pretty muddy from the rain we’ve gotten (not complaining though! Keep it coming, Mother Nature). Baths are always an event with Scout. She hates them, I’d wager. In fact, “bath time” is really synonymous with “run-around-in-circles time.” As such, B held the leash while I did my best to lather her up and rinse her off, all while doing 360-degree turns and trying not to soak myself with the hose, which was going pretty well until Scout decided to shake off halfway through, soaking me. B was laughing hysterically, so I soused him with the hose. You can see how productive we were with this endeavor. All three of us ended up pretty wet, and Scout did get cleaned, so mission accomplished.

Then I took her upstairs to blow dry her a bit, which was another event unto itself. Scout also can’t stand the hair drier, except this time she wasn’t on the leash and she didn’t have her collar on, so I had nothing to hold onto her with. I basically walked in circles as Scout avoided me, aiming the hair drier at her in a feeble attempt to cast some warm air her way. Then, suddenly, she was perfectly still, and I took advantage of it. I realized about a minute later what was keeping her attention. Zoey had thrown up cat food all over the floor, and Scout was licking it up.

I know I should have stopped her, but I didn’t. I thought about it for a second, and then I realized that not only was I managing to blow dry her fairly easily, but she was cleaning up a mess that I really didn’t want to bother with and would have to pay B to handle. (Don’t look at me that way, B. You know it’s true.) So I admit it. I let her lick it up. Sigh. Does this make me a parent now?


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