Pants on the Ground!

Remember that catchy little song from General Larry Platt on American Idol last year? Here’s a clip to jog your memory:

Pants on the ground
Pants on the ground
looking like a fool with your pants on the ground...

Like most working women, what I put on in the morning depends on what I’ll be doing: cleaning house, gardening, (oops, gave that up already—see the last post!), a book event, work, church, you get the picture. The closets of today’s modern woman hold outfits that will fit every activity:  office clothes, dressy clothes, dressy-dressy, casual, dressy-casual, work-out, and comfy lay-on-the-couch clothes.

One of Duke and Daisy’s interesting characteristics that we discovered is they both tend to slobber like crazy. Not sure if it’s a lab thing or we just got lucky but every time they take a drink of water, they do what I call the “drink-and-run”. Take a big drink and promptly run around the house. Mouth open, water dripping all over the floor. Drink again; run again; trails of puddles everywhere. Even worse are the slimy strings of drool that sometimes form, hanging from their jowls with elastic tendencies, wagging back and forth almost in slow motion. Upon seeing this strange mystery-liquid swinging in my direction I quickly realized I needed to add a new category of clothes to my closet: Dog Clothes.  

I raced to the mall and found two pairs of cargo style pants in a lovely shade of army green on the clearance rack at JC Penney's for $2.80 each. Perfect, right? So what if both pairs were slightly loose around the waist. At that price who cares, right?

So now when I get home from work I immediately change into my new Dog Clothes before I take Duke and Daisy outside to run off some of their pent up energy. Duke’s favorite game is to fetch a giant tug rope, although it’s so heavy I can barely throw it 20 feet. Still, he chases after it with zeal, time after time, while Daisy trots around the yard in crooked circles, stopping by off and on to “play” with us.

After a sufficient amount of playtime we head inside through the back door, which goes directly to my studio. I try to catch up on emails while both Duke and Daisy remind me (not so subtly, I might add) that they’ve been home alone all day. I guess the panting, pressing up against me, and constant tail wagging means they missed me.

The windows are low enough for Duke to see outside, so within minutes he’s spied a squirrel and sprints to the door. And wherever Duke goes, Daisy follows. In, out; in, out they go, Duke always leading the way. And each time they go through the doorway, Duke whomps Daisy on the head to direct her, like “C’mon, ma…this way!” If Daisy doesn't move fast enough, she gets a double-whomp, first with one paw, then the other. “Faster, ma! Move it!”

Like a good mom, Daisy takes it all in good stride and trots in or out with a smile. Deep down I think she’s thankful for her sidekick son, the one who’s been her guide, watching out for her since she went blind, double-whomps and all.

Above all though, their favorite “activity” is our nightly walk to the end of our street and back. With no sidewalks in our suburban neighborhood, we learned to wait until late in the evening so there are fewer cars and we can walk up the middle of the street, since I have to make sure Daisy doesn’t bump into street signs, mailbox posts, parked cars, or stumble into the grate of a storm drain.

The instant we grab their leashes, the drum corps shows up (a/k/a happy tails against the washer and dryer). With leashes on and plastic doo-doo bags in tow, we head down the driveway, the hubby with Duke and me with Daisy. Familiar with the routine, as soon as Daisy’s front paws hit the tarred street she takes off at a full gallop, ears a'flopping. This has become her one chance to run free, no holds barred. Duke runs alongside at a leisurely trot, letting Daisy set the pace.

Keep in mind I’m not a runner, so in the beginning I had all I could do to keep up with Miss Daisy. The first few nights I barely made it two houses before I was out of breath and panting like, well, a dog. Running at lightning speed means my feet flying are out of control as I try to stay vertical and keep Daisy on a safe path without tripping over her. (Reason Number Two we wait until dark.)

So one crisp fall evening we were on our way back down the street when Daisy bolted off on another full sprint. I started running alongside her when I felt my lovely dog pants sliding down my hips ever so slightly. All smiles, Daisy was running her little heart out and in the next instant my pants dropped to the ground. I screeched to a stop and let out a scream. “Aaaah! Stoooop! I just lost my pants!”

The hubby turned around and also let out a scream. “Aaah! Look at how white your legs look in the street light!” And just like the song, there I was, looking like a fool, with my pants on the ground.

Barbara