We have to wash the dog today. Our little monster hates water. Now, combine those two facts with another that the dog weighs 80 lbs. and is strong as hell. Needless to say, I'm stalling. I know Mrs. Fixer isn't too enthused about wrestling with an 80 lb watermelon seed either because she just realized she had to do her nails for work tomorrow. She's stalling too. Somehow, the dog knows we want to give her a bath (we really do and she needs it) and is eyeing us both warily, ready to find the most confined space in the house to wedge herself should one of us make a move toward her. Now, my wife is a very intelligent woman and I'm . . . well . . . I can read and write, yet the dog is smarter than we are. Try getting the dog out from under the bed after she turns herself into dead weight and you'll know what I mean.
So I'm in bed, "blogsturbating" (I expect royalties for those who use it.) in front of my laptop, Mrs. F is in her dressing room, making the joint smell like a body shop, and the dog is nervous. I intend to lull the mutt into a false sense of security and grab her when she falls asleep. That's if Mrs. Fixer doesn't decide to mix up a pitcher of martinis before the dog nods off. If I start drinking, the dog gets washed tomorrow. I know it, Mrs. Fixer knows it, and the dog is hoping for it.