I am trapped in my house by painters. Remember how we remodeled two of our bathrooms right before my gallbladder surgery, One's graduation, and the RWA conference? Then we went on vacation, so now we're having the bathrooms painted. And my laundry room, which caught all the drips from the leaky bathroom above it. The painter and his helper are nice enough guys. But they're in my space, and it's weighing on me.
After our first painting estimate, I entertained the idea of doing the job myself. I always imagine I have more hours in my day than other human beings, with the possible exception of Martha Stewart, who only sleeps for four hours, with the lights on, to prevent excessive wasting of time. I told the Captain I was going to make Two help me with the painting, and he laughed and laughed. I don't know which he found more amusing-the notion that I have time to paint, or the idea that Two might wake up, in daylight, to help me. So when we got a reasonable estimate, I admitted that sleeping is important, along with keeping the children alive, and I hired the painter.
I've been hanging out in the kitchen with the dogs, so I'm desperately hoping the job gets finished today. They are recovering from their visit with the groomer, especially Cobie, who had to be shaved. Our dog-sitter thought she was doing the right thing by washing her after she peed in her crate, but she didn't get brushed out, so she was a matted mess. Now she looks like the cat from "Austin Powers." Consequently, she's running around the kitchen in a panic, trying to bite her itchy, shaved parts. Leo just sleeps through his depression.
You may recall that we adopted Cobie from a family whose son was allergic to her saliva. The family is friends with my sister-in-law, so when she heard they had to give her up, she called me. I had a wheaten-mix dog growing up, so I was a sucker for her sweet face. I asked the owner a few questions about her behavior, including her house-training, her barkiness, and her compatibility with children. Then I picked her up, and brought her home. And she's been peeing in my house ever since.
We tried several training methods, and things stayed pretty much the same. Finally, after direct questioning by my mother-in-law, who could single-handedly stop the spread of terrorism if allowed the chance to interrogate the inmates at Gitmo, the original owner revealed the details of Cobie's early life. She had not purchased Cobie from a breeder. She was the second owner, after Cobie had been rescued from a puppy mill. They didn't crate train her, because it freaked her out, probably a result of spending hours locked up at the mill. She spent most of her time outside, where she was allowed to use the facilities as she pleased, thus making it difficult to teach her to hold her urine when indoors.
And you know what, guys? I wouldn't have adopted her if I'd known. I've got enough special-needs kids; I don't need challenged pets. I certainly would have approached her training differently if I'd known. Now I'm playing catch-up, trying to give her one last chance before I find a nice rescue person to place her somewhere they're willing to do all the rehabbing. Because she just peed on my floor in front of me.
And the painters will be back tomorrow.
I'm going to eat a Twizzler.