This is probably not an appropriate topic for Waiting Saturday, but it's too funny, and when else am I going to tell you about it?
I just love my dog.
Yesterday I began a two-thirds-hearted attempt at planting a garden in the big patch of weeds where my dad used to have an actual garden. It was a beautiful day. I made Oscar come outside with me. He usually spends the first half hour of any extended time outside trying to get back in the house, because he doesn't seem to know what to do with himself instead. I suggested to him he could just sprawl out on the grass like he does on the carpet, but he didn't really take me up on this.
After the first half hour, he lay down in the pile of woodstove ashes I had chucked outside a few days ago. Then he went for a wander in the undergrowth between my house and Neighbour-Justin's. By the time I was done in the garden, the knees of my blue jeans were not blue anymore, and Oscar was covered in burrs and other unidentifiable forest-detritus.
"Sorry, buddy," I said. "You need a bath."
I don't think he's entirely latched onto the word bath yet, but he might be getting there, because he's had about three within the last month or so. And he pretty much hates them, in a miserably-resigned kind of way. After his bath, I towel-dried him, but his fur is so thick that the towel got drenched and he still was. He doesn't like the hair-dryer much more than the bath, and it was a warm day, so I decided to let him air-dry a little. Plus, now I needed a bath. I don't normally take baths--preferring showers--the reasons for which could make a blogpost in themselves, but I was pretty grubby and Folk-Musician-Gale gave me this really fantastic bath oil once and I felt like using it. So I started running the water. Then I decided to go downstairs and make a cup of tea.
As I entered the living room, I noticed my soggy doggy lying on the couch. This is pretty normal for him--I think the couch wicks the water away or something, and it's kind of an old couch, so I don't really mind. Only . . . he was lying at my end of the couch. He never lies there. He started to get up with a look on his face that said he was anticipating my yelling at him, but I just burst out laughing instead. It was too perfect. There it was, a nice, already very damp spot on the cushion where he knew I was likely to sit all evening.
"That's okay," I muttered under my breath as I went to make the tea. "I'll just sit on the other end of the couch tonight."
He looked pretty well ensconced as I went up the stairs with my tea for my bath. Some time later, I came back downstairs. There was Oscar, still on the couch. On the other end. There was the big dark bath-water spot on my end. He may not have figured out that the point of Good Friday is forgiveness, but the outworking of his vindictiveness was pretty hysterical.