by KJ Young

“No Max! No…no…nooooo!” You’d think by now, having arrived at my fifty-third year of survival, the expectation of my canine companion actually listening to me would have fallen by the wayside. Still, for some unknown reason, I continue to believe that one day, one fine and glorious day, the squeaker sound will trumpet through Max’s head and he’ll come to see things my way. “Stand still now, Max. You know I have to wipe your feet after you’ve been out in the mud. Come on, please? Cooperate with Mommy.” Of course, you would also think I should have learned by now not to choose a relatively new, white towel for the task of wiping Max’s five-inch paws. But hey, it’s five in the morning, I was still squinting and groaning from the realization that it was time to wake up and begin the day. Hmmm, somehow I don’t think my roommate will buy it. In fact, I think I may have used the same sorry excuse the last time I used one of her white towels for this. “Quit being obstinate Max! Mommy is trying to be as quiet as she can here,” I grumbled and swore to myself while trying to pry each individual, formerly white and light tan foot from the linoleum floor. Secretly inside I’m beginning to cheer and pat myself on the back for successfully getting three of my 184-pound friend’s paws cleaned. However, Murphy has a way of rearing his ugly head just when I think I’m home free. Max, loveable big-sweetie that he is, decides Mommy needs a kissy for all her hard work. Just as I’m bent over, tugging wildly on his last muddy trunk of a leg, his back feet go into motion, as if taking off for a flat run, bringing his hind-end full circle and walloping me smack in the backside. “Morning neighbor!”  I hear coming from next-door amid unmasked laughter at my expense. I pick myself up from the floor thinking, I can brush away the wet, black splotches of muddy puddle water from these cotton pajama bottoms. I smile and nod, lifting the apple basket upward, off my shoulders and over my head. Sighing, I face the knowledge that, in addition to the white towel, I’ll now have to explain how I managed to spear my head through the bottom of my roommate’s clothesline basket. Don’t stand over there wagging your tail and smiling at me, Max. “No! Max! No…no…nooooo!” You would also think, after all these years surviving this life, I’d know not to produce a fake smile to Max as I stand half soaked from head to toe across the porch from him. The pattern is the same every time it rains—give or take an apple basket. Max sees what he must assume is a smirk on Mommy’s face and before I can blink, comes running at me full steam and bowls me over to give me kisses just as Dino always did with Fred on The Flintstones. Is it any wonder I love rainy days?