Well, this is really my fault. Houston hasn't been bathed . . . since March. (What? She doesn't roll in the dirt, she's a very clean lady and brushing her seems to solve the problem, mostly. I mean, at this point I pretty much refuse to smell my hand after giving her a scratch but she's a dog. They used to live outside in the wild. Night and day. She's fine.)
The stench officially got to me yesterday. I decide to bathe her in our tub, as it is too chilly to wash her outside in the yard. Previously, Houston was like the Michael Phelps of mutt bathers. She would practically sailor dive into our tub in New York. She stood still and only shook after she had daintily climbed out and offered me her paws to pat dry. She was stupendous. In fact, I should have bathed her more. We should have shared the shower! (Okay, that's taking it a bit far.)
And here's where the puppy train goes off the tracks. First, I have to drag Houston to the bathroom. Um, that's interesting because the door remains permanently closed due to the fact that she normally tries at all costs, and for no apparent reason, to get in there. (She's not a toilet drinker. As I said, Houston is a lady.) I get her in the bathroom and lock the door, evil sister-in-law that I am. Houston proceeds to use every ounce of her 55-pound body to press down into the laminate tiles. In the process of me attempting to lift her up by her middle - Houston burrowing further into the ground - really, can we work together here? - I hear a very familiar and alarming 'pop.'
Jaysus lord mother of beer and all things holy let the green bay packers win but not against the giants christ it's cold outside there goes my back.
And to make matters worse, I had just started running again! In a clearly foolish attempt to minimize the tire that has sprung from my waist since moving to Land of the Cheeseheads. Now I am immobile. . . and the only thing that will make me not miserable and a raging psycho is . . . cheese, crackers and Wisconsin summer sausage.