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Fluffy is an attention addict. Unless she's doing the "sad sack", which involves looking pathetic to get attention, or is asleep, or outside, she's always trying to get in our faces and to be loved. Its really nice to be completely adored by a pet, Shmogg would never demean himself by begging for attention so bluntly (thats what tummies and claws are for), but Fluffy just sort of stares at us with adoration, mouth open, tongue hanging out with bonus dog drool, our every move a thrill to her little doggy existence. Being worshipped does get a bit tiring, though, and sometimes we are just plain mean and push her away. It doesn't stop her, but does give us a few nanoseconds of freedom from doggy exaltation.
Even when on the computer, she's forever jumping up on the seat to give my ears another coating of dog-spit. She'd prefer my nose, as its dog-spit factor is always lacking, but she'll have to settle for ears. I object to breathing dog-spit saturated air. I also object to breathing in ex-doggy-air, particularly when I've forgotten to close the door where the cat litter has been, but its something a must venerable master just has to put up with.
Among all the various smells associated with dog, "spring bouquet" is not one of them. So when I smelt it last night, as Fluffy was alternatively trying to lick my ear and chew through the chair, I didn't think it had much to do with Fluffy. She comes in, I smell "spring bouquet". She goes out, the smell goes with her. I don't think much of it, and keep typing e-mail. Perhaps Joel decided that the almost permanent cake of mud on Fluffy's nose was due for temporary removal and gave her a bath. We both know that the cake of mud on her nose will re-appear as soon as she returns to the to the dog-hole farm (was the backyard), but sometimes, we think we'd like a normal looking dog.
At the end of the night, I put her to bed, and then retire myself. The next morning, I curse Joel for not replacing the soap, get out all wet and dripping to get another cake, and resume cleansing. After the morning bathing, I get dressed and make myself breakfast. As I sit down, I smell the "Spring bouquet" smell again, and wonder what on earth is going on. I haven't let Fluffy out of her "bedroom" (the garage) yet because the one thing that I must absolutely do in peace is mornings. I refuse to share my pre-coffee state with a ball of enthusiasm and energy. I need to sit for a while until the brain works out that the body is up & moving of its own accord. Kick. Something small and solid in under the table. My foot reaches out to explore, as my sleepiness hasn't quite dissolved in he caffeine yet. Weird. It feels kinda smooth and slimey and has a really weird shape. Curiosity gets to me at about the same time as the caffeine reaches the neurons, and so I take a look under the table.
As well as all the other dog detritus that miraculously forms under the table, there is my special moisturising and makes-you-younger-looking "spring bouquet" cleansing bar. Well, not really, there's half a bar of my wonder-soap, the rest has transformed into looking suspiciously like the bite of a certain dog I know. Although I'm glad that her mouth will have less wrinkles and firmer, younger looking skin, but what I really want to know is what am I supposed to wash her mouth out with if she starts swearing when she think soap is just another yummy snack? Gosh I wish my mother washed my mouth out with a burger and chips when I said ^*(^#%&!!!!
Editor's note:
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