So my dog’s a flip out kinda babe. Pour a little thunderstorm into the mix, and she’s a gonzo freak.

Tonight, I put her in the yard with her food and commenced to sautee duty. My Thai chicken sausage was nearing completion when my wife announced, “Sweety, you’ll never guess who’s coming up to our door!”

I knew it was going to be Elsa Von Facebeiter. I heard a thunder clap just as she said it. I was apparently geographically ignorant of where the H’s and L’s were located of Flip Spiceland’s little map, and I had thought we had clear sailing for the time being. I also knew that, given the general dampness dropping its load on us these days, that she’d be caked in Georgia Red Clay Mud.

Sure enough. What a fucking disaster. What can I do with this soggy, disgusting and now rusty-brown dog? If I leave her outside, she’ll be gone by morning. If I bring her in, our freshly-cleaned house will be soiled like so many junior varsity football uniforms. I can’t lock her in the basement, for she’ll lose her mind and snack on the door.

So I sprayed her off with the hose outside, brought her in through a secret side door and forced her to stay on the oriental rug until she dried off. She tried to get up and freak out a few times, but I scolded her and replaced her on the rug.

Now I’m sitting here wirelessly blogging and she’s calmed down: sleeping at my feet. And I’ll be damned if she doesn’t smell like fresh corn tortillas.

Damn, this dog smells delicious!