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OPINION: Story Over a Cup- The great mud war of 2021

Michael Cole
Story Over A Cup

Sit back and enjoy this harrowing tale of times before. A tale of the great war.

By times before I mean this morning. By great war, I mean the Mud War.

It started well before the coffee was done brewing on this rainy morning. I remember it like it was just this morning.

Well, mainly, because it was.

The wind was howling with force, the thunder shook the very foundation of the house. The windows trembled, the walls creaked and groaned as the sound reverberated through everything.

The rain, oh the rain. A sheet of water cascaded from the heavens.

Nary a storm have I ever seen the likes of this in weeks.

And just as it seemed like the dreaded Nor’eastern had appeared, the rains stopped. However, the grey overcast sky remained.

I was chilled to the bone. So I went over to turn up the temperature on the AC.

I turned to see two wagging tails and four eyes looking at me with expectations.

I knew in my bones, something wicked was about to come my way.

A shiver ran down my spine as I made my way to the door. I slowly twisted the knob, and a slow creak was heard as I started to open the door.

This was followed by two blurs as Bill and Roswell ran out the door as fast as their feet would take them.

They leaped the stairs and with a plop, landed in the mud.

The first shots in the Great Mud War of 2021 had been fired. They ran and frolicked through the mud. Having fun, playing tag, running as fast as they could, finding the places where the mud and water was the most plentiful.

I sipped my coffee in anticipation of the horror about to befall me. These were grim times.

Grim times indeed.

For I knew what was coming.

Eventually the two hellions returned inside. Covered in mud from snout to tail. With big grins and wagging tails.

I closed the door and looked at them.

They knew.

They scattered. I grabbed Bill, and in my arms carried a squirming 65-pound dog the length of the house to the bathroom. I placed him in the shower, as he struggled to escape the fate that was about to befall him.

Resigned to his fate, he stood there as I bathed him. Several minutes of scrubbing, rinsing, and struggling, he was clean and free to go. He did not hesitate to flee his torture.

With a determined look on my face, I went for his brother.

Roswell had other ideas. We danced a time-old routine, the hunter stalking its prey. Ever elusive, until the prey was worn down and made a mistake.

I made my move and Roswell was in my arms.

I sat him in the shower, and turned on the water. The howls of anguish will haunt me until it is time to go to sleep.

The wails of despair and anguish as I washed Roswell of his well-earned mud spots.

Eventually, my actions were complete. Roswell was released and ran into the living room.

I gave them treats which they happily took. But all three knew as the thunder sounded in the distance this was but a brief cease-fire in the Great Mud War of 2021.

 

Michael Cole is a syndicated columnist that when he is not writing, he is plotting global domination or bathing dogs. You can follow him at www.storyoveracup.com