If my sister-in-law’s told me “What the hell is wrong with you?” once, she’s said it a thousand times. Make that a thousand and one, after today’s misunderstanding.
My wife’s been laid up for the past few days with a bad bug. This morning, Gina volunteered to help out by doing our laundry. I would’ve washed the clothes myself, but Sophia believes her designer wardrobe and my limited skills with washer and dryer don’t mix. In any event, at the time Gina jumped to the wrong conclusion, she was in the midst of collecting our dirty apparel for cleaning.
Just for the record, I’m not one of those guys with a fetish for women’s underwear. Nor am I in the habit of smelling my wife’s used panties to get my jollies. Frankly, I consider the idea of poking my nose into anyone’s soiled unmentionables – mine included – to be revolting.
Our puppy holds an entirely different view, however. He looks upon underwear and socks as his personal playthings. In his mind, if he can reach them, they’re his. And in his view, the smellier the better. Even more problematically, there’ve been occasions where the dog not only treated stolen undies as a chew toy, but then added insult to injury by peeing on them!
Despite being banned from the actual washing effort, I thought I could at least assist in the gathering process. I was performing that very duty when I spotted the panties I’d seen Prometheus purloin earlier from our walk-in closet. Although I knew the underwear had been clean before he sunk his teeth in, I couldn’t be sure the article remained bereft of slobber and, more importantly, urine. I could think of only one way to find out too.
Admittedly, my timing could’ve been better. At the same moment I stuck my nose into Sophia’s lacy undergarment and sniffed for the scent of dog pee, I heard a disgusted “yuck!” behind me, followed by the thousand and first rendition of Gina’s “What the hell is wrong with you, Richard?!!”