Having the carpets cleaned makes our fortysomething wax sentimental about pets, who wax sentimental about kids.
Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.
It may be geeky, but I'm totally excited about this: The carpet cleaners are here! Hooray! I love these guys. Sure, some of you are thinking, "Gawd, that's sad." But some of you are seriously jealous. You too dream of burly yet incredibly polite dudes who'll wash away all the residue of muddy paws, muddy shoes and a few cases of stomach flu that failed to hit their target. It's wonderful when dreams come true.
My dogs, our missing cat and a few mice were the real motivators for finally getting these guys out here. But first, some back story: We moved into our 100-year-old house ten years ago, knowing full well it needed a total overhaul. A rottweiler had done business with the 1970s orange-and-blue shag carpeting and I insisted on ripping it all out before moving our furniture in. Unfortunately, the wooden floors underneath were painted with splintery, chipped, lead-based paint. Refinishing them would release lead into the air my children breathe. Not so good for the brain cells and SAT scores. Specialists could refinish them in an environmentally correct way for a pretty penny, but considering the size of the previously carpeted area, we did the only thing we could--bought miles of cheap carpeting. Here's the evidence of my lunacy: I chose beige. Have I mentioned my kids and dogs? What the heck was I thinking?
My dogs are among the great loves of my life. They adore me, therefore I put up with their less-than-perfect behavior. Max, my ten-year-old Scottish terrier, is a sensitive soul whose main objective is guarding the puppies--aka my children. He follows them around, guards them while they play and sleeps by them when they're sick. He cries when we let them out of the car at their schools; staring at me disdainfully since I continue to drive them to that brick building where they go for hours unattended by a dog. Even after all these years, he just can't train me to keep the puppies in the den. I'm obviously the dumbest, most reckless b---- around.
When my college girls moved into their dorms (evaporating into the ether as far as my dog is concerned), Max was horribly upset and demonstrated his grief by peeing in the office. He felt bad about it but apparently not guilty enough to quit his secret rebellion. My home carpet cleaning machine worked overtime. We Fabreezed until it gave me asthma, then turned to alcohol. Somebody told me rubbing alcohol worked like a dream at eliminating doggy odors. I dumped a whole bottle on the office floor and, sure enough, it worked ... for a while. We put a baby gate in front of the office door so the dog couldn't get in, and still he found a way. I lathered, rinsed, and repeated. We bought the poor old guy a kennel so he wouldn't sneak off to do his duty while we slept. I think he's secretly delighted with it--he finally has his own room.
Our 14-year-old porch cat went missing last month. Never civilized enough to live indoors, Molly was a wild thing--a one-girl feral beast that only liked my daughter. The rest of us just got in her way. Sure, she'd rub your ankles and purr, but she was just as likely to slash you with her claws. Over the years, she's battled raccoons and won. The dogs were terrified of her, practically wetting themselves whenever she hissed. We nicknamed her Gangsta. Worried she'd freeze in the winter, we constructed a cat-house from a laundry basket, cardboard and fleece and covered the whole thing with a space blanket (those shiny silver heat reflecting blankets that'll apparently keep you from freezing when you're lost in space). We called it Gangsta Molly's Disco Palace.
When my daughter went off to college, Molly spent less and less time at the palace and eventually disappeared. We're worried a raccoon with a vendetta may have taken out a contract, but prefer to think she's living with a single gal who'll finally buy her a velvet throne and let her live indoors despite her disdain for litter boxes.
I never realized, however, that she was providing a valuable
service. Since she left us, we've found a few mice in the house. This
totally freaks me out. I'm not so fond of rodents. I keep a tidy house,
but lately I've been bingeing on cleaning supplies to sterilize any
surface the little demons might have touched. The cupboards, closets,
pantry and basement are clean and tidy. The appliances have been pulled
out and dust-busted. The house is sanitized for our protection--all I
need is the paper ring. Hiring carpet cleaners was the icing on the
cake. The office no longer retains any lingering Max-stink. The barf
stains are gone and, hopefully, so are the mice. Now, all we have to do
is keep the dogs emotionally balanced. Poor ol' Max--I know how he
feels. It's tough when puppies leave the den.
