The last two days it rained and rained; I’m talking Noah’s Ark type rain. Aside from having an afro due to the high humidity levels, and having to wake the kids up early Tuesday morning because of a Tornado warning, I’m really not complaining about the weather. My water bill has been absurd this summer as I’ve struggled to keep my 26 new hedge roses and giant vegetable garden alive despite the unseasonably hot and dry weather. We gave up on the grass about three weeks ago, and after the recent monsoon rains, our yard, as well as the rest of the yards in our neighborhood, look like mud pits.

The dog looks like he’s been outside, weathering the storm, for the last two days; his true fur color, white, only showing through in patches. The rest of the dog is now literally caked in mud. He reminds me of the “Mud People” from Woodstock, and for a brief moment, before all hell breaks loose, he is perfectly still and just staring at me.

“What the fuuuu…” I begin to mutter as my eyes first fall on the almost unrecognizable creature standing on my deck. “Joey, nooooooo!” I exclaim, but it is too late. Joey is already opening the back door, Jake is squealing with excitement, and the muddy mangy mutt bolts into the house.

Mayhem ensues.  I think for a moment I may be losing consciousness, but as the retriever mix jumps up on me, nearly knocking me into the wall, leaving two muddy streaking paw prints down the front of my shirt, I snap back to reality.  The dog, clearly beside himself to be in the house, is literally racing around my downstairs leaving actual chunks of mud and grass on the floors, walls, sofas, and children.  The boys are literally falling down with laughter and are making no attempts at catching the hell hound as he stops only for brief moments to rub up against and lick them. My daughter, who is thankfully behind a baby gate, looks on with sheer joy, and jumps up and down, eyes begging to be let free and included in the fun.

Sweating and breathless, home alone with the children and devil dog, I stop, hands on knees, to develop a strategy.  I slip and slide on the linoleum, and make my way quickly to the back door, throwing it wide open. The dog, now on the leather sofa in the living room, waits for my next move.

I move slowly, “good boy, good boy…can you sit? Want a treat?” I calmly ask as I slowly move towards the crusty canine.  Incorporating this into his “game” he slowly lowers his front paws and head while simultaneously raising his rear into the air. His body is perfectly still except for his mud stained tail that wags back and forth uncontrollably, water still dripping from it onto the leather sofa.  I know what the flea bag is planning, and as I attempt to stand perfectly frozen, my eyelid begins to twitch with furry.

The messy mongrel sees the slight uncontrolled movement of my eyelid and pounces. I, too, make my move and leap in the direction of the dog. Then the collision of Mom and Muddy Mutt occurs. My eyes instinctively close tightly and my muscles tense as I am suddenly catching 60+ pounds of disgusting dog.  My ears ring, my arms lock around the dog, my children scream with delight, as I fall, seemingly in slow motion, into my white dining room table cloth.

My ears are ringing. I hear no sound. Everything is going super slow. The boys are jumping up and down, the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen adorn their faces, and I and the dog are practically sitting on the dinning room table.  My hearing returns in a snap and I can hear my daughter’s cries from the family room, desperate to be included. Both boys are hysterical with laughter, holding each other while jumping up and down. The dog may have lost the battle, but in his mongrel mind, hasn’t quite lost the war.

There’s nothing on this planet that could make me drop this damn dog. He’s wriggling back and forth, licking at my face, but I just tighten my grip. He then continues to grind God knows what all over my shirt and pants as I carry him with his back against me, under his two front legs, through my house.  I think I begin speaking in tongues, new curse words that I never even heard before, begin escaping my lips as I practically throw the dog out the back door.

He makes a lap around the yard, new mud flying up around (and on) him.  As I shut the back door and run down the steps of the deck, the crazed canine runs out of the open gate, the same way he came in.  Have I mentioned yet that we do not own a dog?

Slower now, covered in mud, yet somehow still victorious, I make my way over to close the gate, just in time to catch a glimpse of the dog, who I have never seen before (and for his sake better never see again), run around the corner of the block.

It is times like these, with half my house and most of myself covered in mystery mud, that I consider for a fleeting moment just giving up.  Instead, with my children still laughing and begging for a dog of their own, happier than they’ve been in days (since stuck inside due to the weather), I instead grab my bucket, brush, and Clorox wipes and get to work… laughing myself half silly while cleaning up the mess.

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