I Should’ve Used A Car Wash

Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system I can move on to brighter things.  Things like dingleberries.  Remember the last dingleberry incident? Dingleberry 2008?  If you don’t, you may not want to read this if you are eating lunch.  Take my word for it, it wasn’t pretty.  Is it a remarkable coincidence that during Dingleberry 2009, with a huge dingleberry dingle-dangling from Not a Dingo’s delicate butt, Mr. Dingo had to go to work early and then called to say that he had to work late?  I think that Not a Dingo is not the only pussy in the Dingo household.

I’m a delicate flower.  I have a sensitive constitution.  But with Mr. Dingo unexpectedly detained, I knew if I was going to prevent further befouling of my desk, papers, couch, and oh, anything Not a Dingo sat her furry butt on, I was going to have to take fecal matters into my own hands.  I should have known that things were not going to go well when I started to gather the pet shampoo and conditioner and both Not a Dingo and Dingo Girl made themselves scarce.  Normally, Dingo Girl is very protective of Not a Dingo.  During bath time, however, all bets are off.  When I located them under the bed, Dingo Girl was practically shoving Not a Dingo toward me with a “Sorry Sis, better you than me” look on her face.

Let me tell you right now, it is impossible to bathe a cat by yourself.  Everyone who makes snide comments about crazy single cat ladies had better watch out.  Any woman who bathes a cat by herself and emerges unbutchered is a force to be reckoned with.  I am not one of those women. 

As I’m trying to hold Not a Dingo steady, douse her with water, open the shampoo bottle, and keep myself from gagging, Dingo Girl has decided that it’s safe to come from under the bed and defend Not a Dingo’s honor.  She’s pawing at my legs, barking, and whining like a little bitch.  So, with one hand on Not a Dingo, one hand on the shampoo bottle, and one leg braced against the tub, I use the other leg to try to scoot Dingo Girl out the bathroom and close the door. 

On the best of days I am not a coordinated woman.  On my worst of days I’m lucky if I don’t end up in traction surrounded by hot male nurses feeding me ice chips and giving me sponge baths….  Hmmmmmm!  Let me think about this….  Hot male nurses….  Sponge baths….

Um, where was I?  Oh yeah, falling into sewage.  I lost hold of Not a Dingo who took that as her cue to dart for the nearest escape route.  Which happened to be underneath the gaping opening of my oversized t-shirt.  Everything would have been okay if she had gone up the shirt, popped out the neck opening, and scurried on her merry way to sun in the bedroom window. 

But that’s not what happened.  I am lucky if I can find a T-shirt to fit over my big head without stretching the neck opening large enough to allow Ann Coulter’s ego to fit through.  Fitting both my head and a wet, irate cat through said opening is not. gonna. happen.  Of course when she darted up my shirt I jumped up.  Being clawed by a pissed off kitty will make one do stupid things.  Not wanting her to fall to the floor and hurt herself, I put my hand over the opening of my t-shirt.  I had a feline Edward Scissorhands bouncing around my shirt like a bb and wailing as if someone just set her tail on fire.  Dingo Girl barking.  Me screaming.  It’s amazing that the construction workers next door and the Stiletto Sisters upstairs didn’t pound on the walls asking me to keep it down. 

I ran to the living room and stood over the couch before opening my T-shirt to dump Not a Dingo onto a soft landing pad.  There was no gratitude for my sacrifice of skin.  The bitches ran to the bedroom to hide under the bed and talk about what a mean mom I am while I surveyed the damage to my tender flesh.  Did I mention that I am a delicate flower?  My stomach and chest looked as if I spent the day playing in razor wire before exfoliating with a brillo pad.

Mr. Dingo came home a few hours later.  By that time Not a Dingo had emerged from her hiding place, matted and covered in dust bunnies and other detritus of questionable origin that clung to her damp fur.  “That’s some nasty-assed shit!” he said, “She needs a bath!”

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