My House Smells Like Dog

My house smells like dog. I can't usually smell it, but when I first walk in the door from work...holy moly. It only takes a few minutes for my nostrils to become accustomed, and then I lazily abandon my plan to Frebreeze the shit out of the place.

This has been my usual routine and I have allowed the doginess of the place continue...I dare say proliferate. Perhaps I'll vacuum, but though it picks up hair, it also filters the exhaust through the accumulated fur and blows it back into the already canine saturated atmosphere. I must find a solution to this problem, and soon. And this is why:

I am enjoying my usual afterwork Dr. Phil episdode when I'm interrupted by a knock at the door. It's amazing when you realize that someone else may enter your bubble, and perhaps make judgement, that you become completely disgusted with the present state of your bubble. Bewildered by the knock, I get up and come to the realization, "Crap. My house smells like a fucking kennel."

I frantically seek out the only half-ass remedey I have yet to find and proceed to run around spraying Febreeze on anything and everything. It has become painfully clear that my dog's ability to stink has surpassed my desire to clean regularly, and I shake my head, disappointed with myself. Right then I make an inner pact that once this front door emergency is over, I am buying a steam cleaner and some of that white smelly powder stuff you sprinkle on carpet. After I have squeezed the last spitting spray out of the Febreeze and onto the curtains, I open the door. It's the mailman.

"This wouldn't fit in your mailbox" he says and hands me a box.

"Great. Thanks," I say and breathe a sigh of relief. I take the parcel, give him smile and shut the door.

I lean heavly against the back of the door, clicking it shut. The sense of relief that pours through me is more like elation. Like when you think you've lost your credit card and imagine all the fancy things that low life who picked it up is buying, only to find it in a pair of jeans when you do laundry. Your are so happy things are the way they are, and not how you feared they might be. No nosey neighbor wanting to check my water pressure. No college kid brainwashed into delivering some enviro - green - water conservation guilt trip. Just the mailman thinking that it's better to see if I'm home than to leave the box on the stoop, where anyone could swipe it.

I look down at the box. It's not addressed to me, but to my husband J. It's from Zappo's. To those of you who don't know, Zappo's is an online shoe store...and my husband is addicted. He has more shoes than I do, and they're cuter too. I toss the box next to the front door, thinking how at the rate J purchases new shoes, at least I don't have to worry about icky boy foot smell on top of the dog smell. Then I think of my pact. I decide that Js shoe budget precludes us from being able to buy a steam cleaner...as they are very expensive (I think).

I go back to the couch, slouching comfortably in my doggydom. "You can't change what you don't acknowledge," says Dr. Phil to some schmuck.

Hmm. Well, like I told you at the beginning of this post...My house smells like dog. Still not sure the best way to tackle it, but I think I got that acknowledging thing down.