So there I was, knocked unconscious by a dose of Ny-Quil.  The nasty cold I've been trying not to get finally sucker-punched me, and the medicine was my last resort.  I was sleeping.  In my bed.  Which is how I know that none of what happened was my fault.  Oh sure, it could be argued that some of my past behavior could warrant a backlash from the Knitting Gods (Smugly challenging them to come and get me during a Steeks class? Guilty.), but this was beyond even their capacity.

Around 3AM Phillip woke me up and asked if I knew where the dogs were.  Yes. Of course I know where the dogs are; it's 3AM and I've been in an antihistamine coma for 4 hours.  Pretty sure I don't even know where I am.  For that matter, you aren't looking especially familiar.

Phillip crossed the hall to Lindsay's room.  "Baby, are the dogs in here with you?" Still-sleeping Lindsay replied "There are no dogs in here and you are annoying."  Apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

I heard Phillip go downstairs and open the front door.  I heard two dogs come inside.  Phillip plopped them, one by one, onto our bed, where they usually sleep.  Through the dull fog I registered that something was Not Quite Right, before the cold medicine dragged me under again.  I went down like a prizefighter.

Flash forward to 7:30 that morning.  The fog in my head had been replaced by the shrieking pain of the sinus infection.  One Scottish Terrier was next to me, curled up serenely on Phillip's pillow.  The other one was sacked out on his back, adjacent to my thigh.  And the something that was Not Quite Right several hours ago now came sharply into focus:  Both dogs were covered with mud.  And they were sleeping on my white, monogrammed sheets.  And there was a bizarre prickling sensation all up and down my leg.  And my arms.  And my hands.  Closer inspection revealed that the mud was not really mud, but the finely-ground bark mulch the landscapers had just replenished, all up and down our block.

So even though I went to bed with nothing worse than a bad cold, I woke up in a Medieval torture chamber, covered from head to toe in bark dust splinters, and wet dog detritus.

I asked Phillip (perhaps somewhat forcefully) what the &#$^(@! he was thinking when he put wet, barkdust-covered dogs in our bed?

"I didn't notice - it was the middle of the night."

So all (and I mean ALL) of yesterday was devoted to bark removal.  From the bedding.  From the carpet.  From the dog's fur (full baths and haircuts required). And from my skin.  You would not believe how deeply imbedded Douglas Fir splinters can get when you sleep on them.  And in what places they can imbed.

So how, you might reasonably ask (I know I did), do two spoiled-brat marshmallow-butt indorsy small dogs get outside in the middle of the night to roll in the barkdust in the first place?  One Word:



MacTarnahan.  He can open the front door from the outside (it's a thumb-latch, rather than a knob).  I've actually seen him do it.  I'm sure he was hoping the dogs would be too dumb to find their way back home, or if they did, be in big trouble with the people.  Either way, it's a Win for the Cat.

I know that someday this will be really funny to me.  It's the sort of thing that only happens at my house.  Someday, I will wonder what's funnier; the cat outsmarting/punishing all of us, or the fact that Phillip can pick up a soaking wet dog who has been Panko-breaded in bark mulch, without noticing it.

Today is not that day.  Today I'm still removing splinters from my ass.