Yesterday I noticed that Sammy, my male dog, was black under the tail. Yuck. Unfortunately, Tom didn't get home until about 8:30pm, and by the time he walked in the door, I was so flat out exhausted from a horrible-screaming-whining-three-year-old day that I just didn't have it in me to add a dog bath to my evening to-dos.
Then, earlier today, I noticed that Tuendi had a giant glob of poop hanging from her hind end fur (one of the downsides of pet ownership). Double yuck. The dogs spent the day outside while Tom and I worked around the house. Tom laid backerboard and ceramic tiles in the toilet area of our bathroom (which was an all-day affair, save for a quick jaunt to Sam's Club and Home Depot), and I corralled boys, packaged items I plan to sell at the upcoming consignment sale, did laundry, scrubbed our toilets and bathtub with CLR (surprisingly effective stuff), and cooked dinner. After dinner, Tom went out to mow the lawn, I bathed John and put him to bed, and finally had a moment to bathe the dogs as well.
It started out fine. Two dogs in the bathtub, warm running water, large bottle of dog shampoo. Then Sam appeared at my elbow. He wanted to help. Great. The dogs HATE him. Tuendi cringes every time he's in the same room with her. And they were already stressed from a day spent outside, and the bath wasn't exactly a highlight of their day either. I showed Sam how to make the shampoo sudsy if he rubbed it between his palms, and for a few minutes, we happily worked side by side, me soaping up Tuendi while he lathered up Sammy--until he lobbed a rubber ducky at Sammy's nose. Sammy growled and while I was scolding Sam, Tuendi made a break for it and ran pell mel around the upstairs leaving a trail of suds on the brand new carpet. On my way after her, I told Sammy to stay, and shut the bathroom door.
I tried to grab Tuendi, but she slipped from my grasp like a greased pig. I finally cornered her as she tried to crawl underneath the bed (where she was thwarted by the Rubbermaid under-the-bed containers that hold Sam's winter wardrobe), and got a firm enough grip on her to carry her unceremoniously back to the bathroom. Where the door was locked.
For whatever reason, Sam likes to fiddle with that particular doorknob, and it is prone to locking easily. We have been locked out of the bathroom so often that we've actually stashed a long, pointy screwdriver that can disable the lock from the hall in an easy-accessible drawer. So picture me, a death grip on a slippery dog, muttering expletives to myself as I trudge back down the hall to get the screwdriver, stick the screwdriver into the hole on the doorknob, and with soapy fingers, attempt to hold the dog, keep the screwdriver in place, and turn the knob, while telling Sam that it is not neccessary to repeat all of mommy's bad words. Then I unlock the now-open bathroom door, shove Tuendi back in the bathroom, put the screwdriver away for next time, return to the bathroom, rinse, and repeat.