It all started like this:

I was about to mop the floor this morning and Troy wanted to help, as usual, and so I let him, as usual. But then, when it came time for me to take the mop and actually do the job, he didn’t like the idea. At all. I’ll spare you the details, because I’m sure you’ve seen it yourself before and know just what I’m talking about, but we had quite a little ordeal on our hands resulting in a lil bit of discipline.

When it was all over and the human-natured little boy was on his way, he then took up an attempt at gaining Mama’s pity by walking around the house alternately crying for his Oncle–only it sounds more like “N’cuh” when he says it–and crying “S’wheet… s’wheet!”

With tears.

Streaming down his face.

As if Oncle was going to fly home from Alabama just to hear him say “Sweet!” save him from his mama.

A few minutes after this little incident, John called from work to say hi and I told him I was about to get in the shower so I could go to the store. A hurt foot that couldn’t really handle a trip to the grocery store saw to it that we are virtually out of food. Unless you want to count the jar of mayonnaise, bag of rice, spaghetti noodles and leftover baby shower cake.

So I was about to get into the shower–as in, about to step IN the shower, peeps–when my doorbell rang. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard right, so I just peeked out from my second story window and didn’t see anyone, but then I heard a knock followed by another ring of the bell.

Tossing on the nearest clothing I could find and taking one quick glance at the unshowered hair and face I’d never hope to see greeting ME at the door, I grabbed Troy and ran downstairs.

It was our next door neighbor. With a dog. Our dog. Well, actually, not OUR dog, but my parents’ beloved Border Collie who has been staying with us the past two weeks while they are in Alabama.

Apparently she’d found him taking a joy-run in the street in front of our house.

In a panic, (is our dog still in the backyard or did she get out too? What if my neighbor hadn’t found him?) I went out back, discovered Belle was still there, quickly brushed off their paws–we don’t have dirt here, it’s just mud most of the time–and let them in the house while I went out and tried to figure out where the escape spot had been.

It was one loose board in our wooden fence, with a forced opening of not more than five inches. Brodie is skinny, but how he managed that… I have no clue.

Upon going inside, I realized that I had clearly not brushed off those paws well enough because there were now muddy dog prints all up and down the stairway carpet. The carpet that, for whatever reason, the owners deemed it necessary to be a creamy WHITE.

I cleaned both dogs’ paws, again, with them trying to wrestle and play with each other the entire time, and a laughing toddler falling all over them, right there in the middle of it. We were a heap of playful growls, flying fur and one old towel.

I grabbed a wet cloth. I grabbed the phone. Started cleaning the muddy prints off the stairs. Called John to tell him that he’d have a little work to do on the fence when he got home.

I thought Troy and the dogs were just playing in the living room.

I was wrong. Kinda.

They WERE playing, just not in the way I’d have liked. Troy was playing with the dogs’ water dish, and had just finished dumping half of it all over the kitchen floor.

And Belle had stepped in the puddle.

It seems I still hadn’t cleaned those previously muddy paws well enough, because as soon as they were wet, it was like a stamp and brown ink. There were now perfectly formed paw prints ALL OVER the downstairs carpet and the hard floor. (You know, that floor I’d mopped earlier?)

I sighed.

I cleaned those muddy paws yet AGAIN. I mopped up the spilled water. Then I rinsed out my cleaning cloth, got down on my hands and knees yet again (picture nine month preggie tummy in there, too) and began anew, this time sure that Troy was in one spot and the dogs were in another.

Ten minutes later, the carpets were cleaned, the dogs were both IN OUR HOUSE–crashed on the floor, in fact–the dirty cloth was in the hamper, my sprained foot was throbbing a bit, but I was done and I plopped down on the couch.

Then I glanced to my right. And turned my head the other way. Completely.

There was Troy, over at the water dish again… standing bent at the waist, hands on either side of the dog bowl, hair completely drenched, face in the water…

…lapping up water with his tongue. Like a dog.

He looked up at me, blowing the water droplets from his mouth and squealed with delight.

I looked again and sighed, a smile playing at the corners of my lips.

I told him no, we don’t drink from Belle’s water dish, wiped his face, gave him a book to look at, and fell into the couch once again.

Grabbing the phone, I called my mom’s cell in Alabama.

“Tell me this is all funny?”