Where Valentine’s Day dreams go to die.

I know Valentine’s Day is old news now, but it’s taken me a few days to process what happened.

It was a nice day after a slew of snowy, yucky days. Everything melted. And Walter and Ruby turned the backyard into a mudpit. They decorated themselves with the spoils of their war against any kind of landscaping. We’re talking a level of muddiness that is an immediate “Oh, you can’t come in unless you go straight for the tub.”

I held them off as long as I could, but the time came to let the dogs in the house. Thankfully, they like baths and are OK-ish about getting in the tub. Walter went first.

The water looked like chocolate milk.

Even after shampooing and rinsing, the water never ran totally clean. So, I was getting Walter semi-clean and trying to embrace imperfection when everyone’s favorite psycho wonderdoodle got his legs mixed up in the hose of the handheld shower … and I got completely soaked. Like, wet hair, wet t-shirt, wet pants. I don’t know how he was so thorough in just a moment of errant water, but he got the job done.

I tried to towel him off, but big Walt wasn’t quite dry when he jumped out of the tub and wedged himself between the toilet and the wall. When I woke up that day, I did not anticipate that at some point, I would say, “Quit hiding behind the toilet!” But it was written in the stars.

Walter’s damp fur stuck to the roll of toilet paper, so when he did step away from the toilet, half of the toilet paper traveled with him, stuck on his hip. It was about this time that Ruby decided it was her turn for a bath, but she jumped right to her favorite part – the toweling. She got between me and wet Walter and the toilet and the errant toilet paper and shoved her butt in my face, offering me the exciting opportunity to towel off her booty.

What can you do? The girl loves to have her booty towel-dried.

I was simultaneously charmed and broken. I was hot, covered in dog hair, and completely soaked. It was the most bereft I’ve ever felt bathing a dog. And that includes the time I gave nervous-tummy Foxie Doxie an emergency bath to clean off explosive diarrhea. Li’l Frank got jealous and pooped behind me during said bath, and I stepped in the poo. And all this went on while My Guy and our realtor were having a frank conversation about dropping home values.

Valentine’s Day was worse.

It was also the day after the cleaning woman had worked so hard to leave the bathroom spotless. After the dogs’ little love fest, the white tile appeared beige at best. If we’re being honest, it was the color of despair. The bathroom looked like a Mad Max-style thunderdome, strewn with grey water and wet towels and damp black dogs. And me, moderately destroyed.

I love my dogs, even though they attempt to kill me on a regular basis. But unlike St. Valentine, I haven’t been martyred yet. So, that’s a win.