Hansen’s disease is better known to the non-medical public as leprosy, but my mother’s hypochondria has given her a better than average knowledge of medical information and terminology. She has four bookshelves filled with nothing but medical resources and texts, and I’d bet every bookmark on her computer is a Web MD knockoff.
“Hoover doesn’t have fleas, mange, or worms,” I assure her. Actually, I’m not sure of the latter since I haven’t taken him to a vet yet, but the fact that I gave him a store-bought deworming agent and he hasn’t been walking around scooting his butt on the ground makes me think he’s okay. I wisely decide to withhold the fact that Hoover has a fascination with the crotches on my worn underwear and the deposits my cat, Rubbish, leaves in his litter box.
“Why are you here?” Mom asks. She is staring at Hoover like she wishes she had a crucifix and a garlic necklace to ward him off.
“What?” I say all innocence. “I can’t drop in for a visit with my loving mother?”
Mom narrows her glacial-blue eyes and gives me The Look. It’s an expression she mastered years ago, one that can cut through the thickest bullshit like a laser scalpel through soft fat. The first time I remember her using it on me was some thirty years ago when I tried to convince her I wasn’t the one who had scraped off and rearranged the frosting on the German chocolate cake she had baked for the company coming that night. At first I tried to deny that the cake had been tampered with at all, despite the fact that, by then, the frosting consisted of a thin, sugary glaze dotted with a few scattered strands of coconut and a handful of nut pieces. When that didn’t fly, I tried to blame the tampering on my sister, Desi, ignoring the fact that she was still in diapers and confined to a playpen. Then I offered up the theory that the frosting had simply melted and been absorbed into the cake. It was an insane defense but I was naive enough at the time not to let the laws of physics get in my way. It was at that point that Mother gave me The Look. It left me shaking and trembling with fear. I not only confessed immediately, I cried for hours afterward, begging the whole time for forgiveness.
I haven’t touched another German chocolate cake since then, though I have been known to buy cans of the frosting and eat it with a spoon.
Mom’s Look now has nearly the same effect on me it had during the cake debacle, minus the blubbering part. I confess. “I admit I have an ulterior motive. I want to spend the day in Chicago tomorrow and I need someone to dogsit for me.”
“Chicago? What are you going to do in Chicago?”
“Shop. I want to get my holiday stuff done early this year.”
I look away, knowing Mom will likely smell a rat. She knows I love shopping about as much as I love getting what Desi calls the annual spread-’em-and-let-’em exam. Hoping to distract Mom from sniffing out the truth, I stomp my feet and blow into my hands. “It’s cold out here,” I say.
Mom chews on one side of her cheek, eyeing Hoover warily. Worried that she’s about to say no, I play my trump card.
“By the way,” I say, “Hoover here is part Lab. Did you know that Labs have such an exquisite sense of smell they can actually sniff out cancer in its earliest stages? Or predict when someone is going to have a seizure?”
Mom’s eyebrows arch at this. “Really?” she says with newfound curiosity. Hoover thumps his tail and grins at her, as if he understands she’s softening toward him. A shadow materializes behind Mom and Hoover’s tail thumps even faster as the shadow morphs into William-not-Bill.
“Hi, William,” I say with genuine warmth. Even though my date with him was an unmitigated disaster, deep down he seems to be a nice, decent guy. I like him and, more important, Mom seems to like him, though given her track record with men, I’m not sure this is a point in his favor.
“Hi, Mattie,” William says, his eyes focused on Hoover. “Who have you got here?”
“This is Hoover,” I say, and then I stiffen, recalling that William is deathly allergic to cats—one of the things that contributed to our first date disaster—and wondering if he might have a problem with dogs, too. I’m ready to pull Hoover back when William squeezes past my mother, squats down, and gives Hoover a little scratch beneath his chin.
“Hey, boy,” he says. “You’re a cutie, aren’t you?”
Hoover inches closer. Seconds later his nose is nestled in William’s crotch and he’s so happy his whole butt is wagging—Hoover’s that is, though William looks pretty content, too.
“Is he yours?” William asks me.
“He is,” I tell him. “I found him by a gar—” I catch myself before letting it slip that I found the dog next to a Dumpster. To my mother and William, that would be akin to saying the dog had rolled in toxic nuclear waste. “I found him behind a grocery store, begging for food,” I say. “I ran an ad in the lost-and-founds but no one answered. So I guess he’s mine for now.”
“He’s very cute,” William says.
Mother is frowning at the two of us as if we’re plotting against her. “Mattie wants to leave that creature here with us tomorrow,” she says, practically spitting the words out. “But I don’t need some dirty mongrel shedding and drooling all over my house.”
“I’ll bathe him tonight to make sure he’s extra clean,” I tell her. “And he’s quite healthy.”
“Come on, Jane,” William says, staring at Hoover with a smitten look. “It’s only for one day.”
Mother’s frown deepens. “Is he housebroken?”
“Absolutely,” I assure her. “He’ll let you know if he has to go and I promise I’ll poop-scoop anything he leaves in your yard when I pick him up tomorrow.”
“Fine, but just this once,” Mom says, acquiescing at last. William claps his hands together like a little kid.
“Thanks, Mom.” I lean over and give her a kiss on the cheek, which she promptly wipes off with the cuff of her blouse. Though she looks guilty for making the gesture, I know she can’t help herself. Sometimes I wonder how she ever managed to conceive Desi and me. Sex is about as messy an activity as there is between two humans, and when one of them can’t stand the thought of having someone else’s spittle on her cheek, it’s hard to imagine how any of her four husbands ever managed to score a home run. Despite my efforts to stop it, my brain makes the leap to wondering if William and Mom are doing it, and if so, how these two germaphobes deal with all the wonderful messiness that is sex. An image of the two of them outfitted in giant head-to-toe condoms that have a few strategic openings makes me smile. Then the ick factor of thinking about my mother and sex in any form hits me, and I quickly shift gears.
After leaving Mom’s house, I head back home and haul Hoover into the bathroom. Half an hour later he is thoroughly sudsed, scrubbed, and rinsed within an inch of his life. Hoping to further enhance his foo-fooiness, I work a bunch of hair conditioner into his fur and let it sit for a bit before rinsing that out, too. Rubbish sits on the side of the bathroom sink watching the entire affair with an air of disdain, though he briefly gets into the flow of things by licking his paw a few times and smoothing down his facial hair.
By the time I’m done, Hoover smells divine, feels soft and fluffy, and looks utterly humiliated. I’m pretty pleased with the results until he goes to the door and whines to be let out. As soon as the door’s open, he runs off to a patch of dead leaves, melted snow, and mud, flops onto his back, and starts doing the doggie version of the Macarena. By the time he’s done, he bears a strong resemblance to Swamp Thing but he looks much, much happier.
I decide to let him have his dignity for tonight, knowing that come morning I’ll have to bathe and humiliate him all over again. But I make him spend the night on the floor on a towel rather than in bed with me.