"How many items did the dawg drag out of the basket?" I ask.
"Oh, maybe a dozen altogether" says Mary.
"Did Devil Dawg have a preference? I mean, the clothes were all clean so there wasn't any odor other than the smell of detergent."
"But she did show a preference" said Mary "for smaller items. The basket was pretty much all white items so your shorts got the royal treatment." Ah, that makes sense. Devil Dawg isn't too much larger than a good size cat and she doesn't really have a good strong jaw like many dogs. If she grabbed a t-shirt and it was entangled with other clothes, she probably wasn't able to drag it out of the basket. Then I started thinking. Where did the clothes used as dawg toys go? I had put my dirty clothes into the hamper when I took them off last night and I didn't notice a pile of any clothes already there.
"You picked up the clothes?"
"Yes"
"And what did you do with them?"
"I put them back in the clean laundry basket" says my wife, sweetly. What could I do? What could I do? Here is this woman who is beating the odds on one of the most deadly cancers known to man, the woman I love, and she tells me that! I swallow air and slightly change direction.
"But wouldn't they be full of dawg hair?"
"I told you" she says "before we got married that living with me meant living with four footed creatures and that you should not complain when you find dog hair in the butter!" It turns out that is what she said 14 years ago. And, in all these years, I have only found dog hair in the butter one time! I also know that "dog hair in the butter" line is a trump card and any further argument is futile. So now my mind snaps back to the spit, drool and dribble issue.
"OK, but what about dawg drool? Were my shorts all wet?"
And my sweet, lovely, good hearted spouse responds, "As far as I could tell, they weren't too wet so that is why I put them back in the clean clothes basket."
I am hoping she is pulling my leg, but just in case I plan on re-washing that basket tonight.
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