A Wednesday Confession: Dog Magic

I think my Springer Spaniel’s crate is magical. He is a dog of many obsessions and extra-long hair, and, as such, he tends to get muddy. Especially when it rains, and my yard becomes a giant mud pit. Wet, squishy mud on a long-haired dog is not fun. It gets everywhere, particularly when said dog comes inside and immediately shakes to rid himself of whatever icky stuff might be clinging to his fur.

Today, my yard is muddy and gross. And I made the mistake of leaving my dogs outside for just a little too long. “Too long” isn’t a certain thing. It varies from moment to moment. Let’s just say that, in my house, I perpetually live on the verge of “too long”, and leave it at that. Anyhow, since my fuzz-brains were unsupervised for longer than two minutes, they decided to enjoy the chilly air by running around and yapping their joy into the sky.

Did I mention my yard is a mud pit?

Yeah … Both dogs came inside liberally coated with mud. I managed to clean it off of Fae, who has shorter hair, but also seems to believe I am, somehow, going to murder her with the towel. This was not pretty. Or fun. Then, I turned my attention to Shiner. I was dismayed to find the mud wasn’t coming out of the long hair on his legs, so I shut him into his crate to keep him off of the furniture while I went in search of a solution.

I came back about fifteen minutes later, dog wipes in hand and my heart hardened for battle. But when I opened the crate, out pranced a happy, smiley, dog without a bit of mud on him.

And so, there is only one explanation: Shiner’s crate is magical. There is some sort of magical vortex lurking within its dark depths. It is a place where the fabric of reality has worn thin, and unexpected things can happen. The types of unexpected things that tend to brighten a girl’s day — like finding a mysteriously clean dog in the place of a formerly ratty one. I have begun to wonder if the magic of the crate would work for other problems in my life. For example, what if I managed to crawl inside? Would I stuff myself in there — an overly chubby woman in the throes of her middle adulthood — and emerge a slimmer, younger version of myself? The thought has a certain golden-tinged appeal, and I almost want to give it a try.

But then, I picture myself stuck inside a dog crate … trying to explain to my husband just how this all happened. Yep — I think the magic just died.