This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

Sweet Husband and Best Man Friend lived together for a year in college.  Now that all parties concerned are grown-ups living in lovely, code compliant homes, the college house has become the stuff of legend.

It was, to put it bluntly, a shit hole.  

You could see into the basement through a crack in the shower floor.  And you had to go into the basement to turn on the hot water heater each morning before showering.  The toilet moved a full two inches to one side if you sat on it too rapidly....and that was just the bathroom!

Because the house was so dilapidated, the boys were not necessarily terribly concerned with keeping it in pristine condition.  At one point during the year, someone brought a pellet gun into the house (the kind that shoots little plastic bb's).  One night Sweet Husband took aim at a clock on the wall and shot at it until the plastic front broke.  When Best Man Friend came home and saw the mangled clock, he exclaimed in mock horror, "THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS!"

This story came forcefully to mind for me last Friday evening.  I came home from work and let the dogs outside.  After reading the mail, I stepped out myself to throw the ball for Moe a few times and quickly noticed....


....yes, that is a very muddy paw.  And the rest of him?  Not much better.  And his sister?  Basically same condition.

I quickly opened the door to allow only Moe inside.  After all of two seconds trying to clean him up with a dish of hot water and an old towel, I realized the job was way beyond that, bundled Moe up like a baby in the towel, and hauled him upstairs to the shower.

But then Porterhouse, abandoned outside, started barking to be let in.  I threatened Moe, "If you get out of this shower while I'm gone...." and ran downstairs to start on Porter.

Being a little higher off the ground than Moses, Porter's mud was mostly on her paws, and--at any rate--I decided trying to get all fifty pounds of her upstairs to the bathroom would do more harm than good.  I washed her off as well as I could with the aforementioned towel and dish of hot water.  

But then I had to go upstairs to keep Moe from drowning, leaving a damp and still-a-little-dirty Porter to her own devices.  (Important note: Porter's favorite place to lay is our still fairly new couch.)  I threatened Porter, "If you get on that couch while I'm gone...."

Upstairs, meanwhile, Moe was still in the shower.  I turned off the water and got him mostly dried off before he decided he had better things to do and slipped away from me.  I quickly followed him downstairs where--can you guess where this is headed?--both dogs were staring at me placidly from atop the couch.