The Husband and I spent the weekend doing what we do best: shopping for shoes, hosting a dinner, meticulously cleaning, and wiping up puppy messes (and then re-cleaning). And I've discovered that I am deliriously happy when the house is spotless. Everything smells good and shines in the afternoon light. I've also discovered the key to a lasting marriage (besides having separate bathrooms): breaking up chores evenly. I hate doing the dishes, and he downright refuses to change the sheets, so we compromise. (I'm convinced that The Husband would sleep in the same grimy sheets forever if he didn't have me to change them.)
We also took Maggie Mae, our sweet golden retriever mix, to the groomer. This is always an adventure. The only thing Mags likes better than swallowing human food whole is riding in the car. So as soon as I produce the leash, she's jumping fluidly in the air over and over. I'm talking all four paws coming off the ground in unison. She is then so anxious to get to the car that she's running around in circles and back and forth between the front door and garage door. The cat is then in on the action, chasing the end of Maggie's leash as it drags on the floor. When we're finally in the car, Maggie's demeanor quickly turns to worry when we turn right instead of left at the end of our shady street. (We always turn left to head to my parents' house, where Maggie's best friend and mentor, Ramsey the basenji, is waiting.) She knows that turning right signals one of two dreaded things: vet or groomer. Upon pulling into the parking lot, Maggie is beside herself with grief. She is now in the front seat with me, hoping to escape out the passenger side door, which she knows is against the rules. The journey from car to inside the establishment is a sea of disturbing smells and noises, and by this point, Maggie has started to shake. Her entire body is trembling, from her toes to the tips of her floppy ears. And then, after all the anxiety, we have to leave her there for three hours. And yes, we've tried to groom her ourselves in order to avoid this scenario, and it wasn't a pretty picture. (Imagine The Husband I in the backyard with a shaver and tiny pieces of golden hair flowing in the breeze like cottonwood. Not anyone's idea of a good time. Especially Maggie, who has to endure her mom and dad trying to cope without proper grooming equipment.) Nope, I think I'll leave it to the pros. The good news is, Maggie looks wonderful and smells ... well, she smells better.