What emotion do you feel when you read that word? Dread? Reluctance? Resignation?
You see, mowing at our house is a bit of an extreme sport. We have a sturdy riding mower. I believe in the country the politically correct moniker is “lawn tractor.” Yes, that sounds much more farmish.
For me, the whole mowing event kicks off by just getting the darn thing to actually start. There are these levers up by the steering wheel. You have to move one all the way up, and you have to move the other all the way down. I never remember which is which so I’m sure that doesn’t help.
I generally attempt to get the mower started by moving the levers every which way, turning the key about 1342 times while the tractor just says something like “Owwww. Owwwww. Owwwwwwwww.” Yes, it’s possible I am causing my inanimate lawn tractor physical pain.
At some point in this exercise I just start cussing and bouncing up and down on the seat because, yeah, that should help. Or I’m throwing a tantrum. And yes, I DO know Albert Einstein’s definition of insanity.
So I hop off of the stupid tractor and stalk into the house to proclaim (once again) that the damn thing will NOT start. Jim quietly gets up, goes outside, and through some warlock voodoo, starts the tractor in one easy try. Magic. The guy is magic. One try.
Yeah, that might tick me off if I thought about it too hard, but there’s mowing to do.
The fun starts when you enter the dog yard (many people would call this a back yard, but ours is very obviously a dog play yard…or a war zone). This is where the simple act of mowing becomes an extreme sport. My lawn tractor kind of needs a seat belt and I kind of need a helmet.
You see, there are obstacles. First, our property grows rocks. I swear it does. Big, evil, lawn-tractor stalking rocks. They really do just pop up out of the earth willy-nilly (I have always wanted to use “willy-nilly” in my writing. CHECK!)
Beyond the naturally occurring obstacles in the yard, there are the traps set by the dogs. I would like to think that my dogs aren’t evil little lawn tractor poachers, but it’s hard to defend their innocence when they are all lined up in the giant back window watching and placing bets as I navigate their latest landscaping efforts.
My dogs dig some serious holes. It’s their yard…I let them have their fun…but someday, it’s entirely possible I am going to mow my way into one of their impressive pits to never be seen again. I checked on Google to see what is actually on the opposite side of the world from Mounds, Oklahoma and it’s the Indian Ocean. Great. My dogs are going to tunnel through and drain the Indian Ocean, thereby causing the mother of all floods in Mounds, Oklahoma.
I have photographic proof of one of their latest projects. Yes, there’s a whole Dalmatian in that hole. It’s not one of those little butt-only statues. She is, I believe, working on the media room. This hole already features three bedrooms, three baths and a lovely family room. It’s soon to be listed on Zillow.
Beyond these exciting obstacles there are other little and not so little land mines. In reality, the event of mowing the dog yard actually begins long before I fail to start the lawn tractor.
There is poop to scoop. So much poop. But it’s good poop (thank you fine folks at Fromm! Yes, I will continue to plug my favorite stores and brands on this blog. Fromm makes excellent dog food. Check them out.)
Then you have to gather all of the toys that could become projectiles if you mow over them (I may or may not have found this out the hard way). So many toys. What lucky, lucky dogs.
Then you have to pick up the remains of whatever the dogs last absconded through the dog door and destroyed in the yard. So many things destroyed.
That last bit may make it sound as though I’m a terrible dog trainer. I am actually a pretty darn good dog trainer. But just as the cobbler’s children have no shoes…and I blame the dog door… and some very crafty dogs.
Anyhow, there’s a lot of stuff to pick up in the yard before you can mow. My last dog yard treasure hunt yielded one used-to-be-a-good-dog-blankie-turned-tug-toy, one pair of shorts (unscathed!), one house shoe (slightly scathed, but I’ll still wear it), several socks (the mystery of how socks get lost in the laundry is forever solved in our home), one not-napping-on-that-again dog bed (took me a moment to even realize it once WAS a dog bed), and one half of my favorite bra.
Did this make you ask yourself the same question it made me ask myself? Where is the other half of my bra?
Before you nominate me for the title of Terrible Dog Mom of the Year, I can promise you one I’m not the only one guilty of this lack of dog supervision (I still say my dogs are extra-special-hyper devious).
As you may or may not know, in addition to being the crazy dog/donkey/horse/pig/squirrel/bunny lady of Mounds, Oklahoma, I also co-own a dog-centric business in Tulsa. Pooches is a dog daycare, boarding, training, and grooming facility—a busy, fun, furry place to work. (On that furry note…between our house and Pooches, I think if I ever have to have my lungs xrayed, they will find a Pomeranian in there.)
In our line of work, let’s just say that we have been witness to some pretty amazing things being expelled from dogs, one way or another. I can’t count the number of times an employee has tracked me down to have me identify something nested in paper towels, held by rubber-gloved hands. It’s become a bit of a trivia game at this point. You really can’t gross us out.
We have found a string of beads, socks…many socks, bits and pieces of once-favorite toys, candy wrappers, and a few items that were never identified.
One day, not too long ago, a man brought his young lab mix for a day of play. As he was turning the dog over to one of our Rufferees (that’s what we call our daycare attendants…I made that up…love it with me), he mentioned that the dog had eaten a sock and though they had administered a hydrogen peroxide chaser to try to get the dog to “return” said sock, it had yet to appear. Could we keep an eye on the pup to make sure he wasn’t in distress? Could we please let him know if “something comes up?” Sure. We’re on it.
A couple of hours into the day, one of our Rufferees (that never gets old for me), came to inform us that our little labish friend had indeed expelled a foreign object. But it wasn’t a sock. It wasn’t a sock at all.
The object presented in the paper towel was red. And lacy. And teeny tiny. And likely once silky instead of slimy.
So…it wasn’t a sock. It was a red, lacy, unmentionable. Now, this is not the first time we have found Victoria’s finest secrets in dog excrement or vomit (eating while reading? My apologies. You run this risk with me). But it WAS the first time that a husband told us to look for a sock that wasn’t a sock at all. So would HE be the one to pick the dog up or would his wife have that duty? Would we be faced with telling HER what we found?
This thought immediately begged the question as to whether this was her under garment. Or was hubby unaware that some damning evidence had found its way into Rover’s gullet? OH, the plot thickens. Don’t tell me there is no drama in dog daycare.
Well, as fate would have it, the wife showed up to claim the dog and our ever-discrete and awesome manager, Lindsay, informed the young woman that her dog was fine and that he had indeed thrown up an article of clothing…an article that was not exactly the sock we were expecting.
The young woman started laughing immediately (oh thank the heavens!) and told us that her husband had been too embarrassed to admit that we should be watching for lacy red panties so he panicked and went with sock.
Laughter was shared, and another story was filed away that, thankfully, did not have a divorce court ending.
Which brings me back around to wondering about the other half of my favorite bra. My dogs are SO not going anywhere until that sucker surfaces.
Ok, off for another round of extreme mowing. Wish me luck.