Waterboys

Our dogs drink at least four bowls of water a day. Just regular sized dog water bowls that need refilling a few times as I go about my usual routine. And if I forget, they don't nag or whine at me, they just go looking for some other way to resolve their thirst. Little did I know how far they'd go.

A few nights ago after dinner, we all settled into the family room to watch some TV. The dogs, as always shadows, are right where we are. I don't remember what TV show we were watching, or why it really had our attention. But we slowly became aware of something odd, an unusual sound. Was that running water?

I offered, "Oh, must be one of the boys taking a shower". "None of the boys are home", my dear husband informed me. "Is the dishwasher running?" That was me again suggesting another idea. "Can't be. It's in the kitchen and the sound is coming from upstairs." That was my husband again. He's smart. "The clothes washer, maybe?" By now, I was grabbing at furballs. So we just listened. Then my husband, with realization announced, "Sounds like, uh-oh... a broken pipe!" Before the last word was out we were up and launching for the stairs. He takes them two at a time, I'm coming behind him as fast as my short little legs will go.

At the top of those stairs, we are beckoned to our bedroom by the sound of gushing water. What we discover in our master bathroom are two Rottweilers having a wild ole time partying in our bathtub. The water faucet full on! The Passive One is paw deep in the tub lapping up water from the bottom. The Pest is concentrating on chugging water directly from the faucet. Both soaking wet and happy about it. Big muddy pawprints lined the tiles along the tub's edge and all across the floor. Several trails of water streaked down the window and pooled on the sill. Water churning down, spraying up, shooting over, flying across.

We announced our arrival: "What's going on, boys?"

The embibing paused as they noticed us. They shot us big, sloppy, goofy grins, tongues hanging down to their knees, delighted with themselves. "Hooray!" they cheered, "the more the merrier! C'mon in, we'll make room! Isn't this great! Fun, Fun, Fun! Hooray! Hooray!" "Whee!" They flipped some water at each other. "Ha Ha! Whoopee!" They flipped water at the ceiling. "Whoo-hoo! Yah buddy!" They flipped water over at the mirror. The bathroom was a-riot with teasing, and romping, and stomping. They leapt, they laughed. Would the neighbors call the cops to complain about the wildness they could certainly hear??

For a surprising second there was calm, the room still, hesitating. Then determinedly the Pest dipped his head to one side, and the Passive one immediately caught the message. My husband and I braced ourselves against the doorframes and cowered. The dogs wound up, from their drooping ears to their docked tails, and let forth a mighty shake that made the floor move, picture frames rattle, the shower doors dance on their glides. Wild, free, who cares if we're inside! A meteor shower of spray, shooting stars of messy wet fur. My bathroom turned into a black hole now that it's covered with their hair.

So who's to blame? And who turned that faucet on? They certainly aren't telling. They've now taken to giving me the eye, while I'm brushing my teeth, shiftily glancing from the tub faucet to me and back again. Hoping. But why encourage them? I know we didn't teach either of them to turn that faucet on. Maybe they have learned it from watching TV. Anyway, they haven't yet repeated the feat, and I'm still re-filling waterbowls.