And In This Corner...

Well. That was interesting.

And one way to end up with a clean kitchen floor.

Moments ago, Brody, Darwin and Ozark decided to commit felony battery upon one another in my kitchen.

My kitchen is of the walk-through variety, with an open floor space approximately six by twelve feet. I was in there wiping the counters, having just put some dishes into the dishwasher. I was contemplating tossing a Jimmy Dean egg, sausage and cheese croissant in the microwave when the brawl began.

I did not witness what set the whole thing off, but suddenly I had 250 pounds of snarling, whirling, sharp-toothed, fur-flying chaos taking place at my feet.

Mainly, it was Brody and Darwin. Again. After a few weeks without an incident, I thought we'd gotten past the acrimonious stage of their relationship. Apparently not 100%.

Ironically, I had just finished reading an email from my friend, Kim, congratulating me for my use of Shen Calming Herbs on Darwin, and cautioning me that it might take some time to see results. Guess she had that right.

Breaking up a dog fight is a delicate situation. Many a concerned (or massively pissed off) dog owner has been seriously injured while trying to separate dogs bent on eviscerating each other. So I did not leap right into the fray and stick my vulnerable body parts in harm's way. First, I used the Deep, Terrifying, Death Yell. This produced a momentary lull in the mayhem as the dogs asked themselves, "What the hell was that?" Much more quickly than one might expect, the lure of impending carnage overwhelmed canine curiosity and the fight resumed.

The ever-popular "Grab Brody By The Tail (which is the end without the teeth) and Drag His Stupid, Furry, Hostile Ass Away From The Action" maneuver was attempted next. However, he and Darwin were firmly attached to each other, teeth to fur, and my neck and shoulder are still all messed up from last week's unfortunate stair incident. More yelling was done, and now I will probably have a voice that I usually only hear coming out of my mouth the day after attending a Cross Canadian Ragweed concert. Again, no effect.

When dogs fight outside, people often try spraying them with the hose. I was in my kitchen, and my sink has a nifty dish-squirting device (I love those things, though I almost never use them). Maybe that would work. I cranked up the water, pulled the squirting device from its resting place, and began squirting the dogs about the head and face. I may also have been yelling, but by this time I was so furious, I can't be sure.

Ozark was only a partial participant. I'm sure he wasn't involved in the instigation of this particular episode, but once it starts he tends to jump in and out of the fray because he wants to exert some control over the situation, and probably also because he hates to be left out of anything. Sprocket was pacing and orbiting from a safe distance in the dining room, stuffed hedgehog in his mouth.

Eventually we reached an oceanic volume of water and a new personal best in the "decibel level achieved while screaming at the dogs" category, and the combatants separated. This enabled me to stand between and over all of them and in a deep, threatening, rumbling voice make crystal clear to them what Bad Bad BAD dogs they were. I may also have mentioned, in passing, that this is MY FUCKING HOUSE, and they are MY FUCKING DOGS, and I AM THE ALPHA BITCH, and they will GODDAMNED WELL LIKE IT THAT WAY. I was careful not to direct my tirade at any one dog in particular, except Sprocket, who by virtue of his age and total lack of involvement, was exempt. I began to herd them out of the kitchen, growling at them the whole time, using my body to be sure they stayed separated.

At this point they had the sense to look sheepish and somewhat remorseful. That was wise, because I was working to suppress the urge to bite them myself. (I do have a history as a fear-biter)

Once I was sure the threat had passed, I began to check for injuries. Primarily mine. My purple little toenail (from a previous alcohol-related incident) sustained further damage, and I have a small but bloody scratch on my heel. The dogs, perversely, appear to be completely uninjured.

Then I turned my attention to the kitchen. Last summer, we laid a lovely gray slate tile floor. It was now more of a shallow lake, with large gobs of bad-dog fur floating around in it. Sigh. Off to the towel cupboard I went. I tossed the towel on the floor, and shuffle-walked it around the kitchen until the towel was saturated and the floor was considerably dryer.

Since I am the Worlds Laziest Housekeeper (or at least the most disinterested), I don't do common domestic things like mop floors or dust shelves. I simply don't see the need. I do make the bed, tidy the kitchen, and on occasion I also vacuum and clean the bathroom. That pretty much sums it up. Now, however, I have a much-cleaner-than-usual kitchen floor.

Maybe the dogs were just trying to tell me it was dirty.

Right now Brody is looking out the front window, Ozark is lying on the floor by the loveseat about five feet away from me, and Darwin is lying right here, his soggy head on my bloody foot. Sprocket has retreated to the peace and quiet of the bedroom.

If I were still drinking, now would be a perfect time for a glass of wine. But I'm not, so it isn't.

It's a good thing I wholeheartedly love these dogs, because otherwise they'd all have fresh rolling-pin dents in their skulls.

Now I think I'll go put that Jimmy Dean croissant in the microwave. The floor out there is really, really clean.