Jackie Fleming

I climbed into my clunky station wagon and headed home, wondering what series of crises would be reported to me by the sitter upon my arrival. It always seemed that when I treated myself to a day out, I was penalised by having to deal with all sorts of mishaps, spillage, clutter and fights that had occurred in my absence. The highway stretched before me, and I slowed my speed trying to put off the inevitable.

No one was in the yard when I pulled in, and the dogs didn’t come out snapping at the grocery

bag. It was suspiciously quiet inside the house, and I called out, “Where is everybody?” “In the bathroom,” came the reply. “Great,” I sighed. When I went to the kitchen to deposit the groceries, it was noticeably free of dirty dishes and food morsels.

“We cleaned our room and the kitchen and now we’re giving the dogs a bath,” my eldest proclaimed, as I approached the bathroom wondering what was going on.

Our two black Labrador retrievers were totally immersed in Soaky Fun Bubbles and, upon seeing me, leapt from the tub; two white clouds with white tails, knocked me to the sudsy floor, each bestowing a slurpy “welcome home” lick on my face. The three little boys and two big dogs thought this was wonderful entertainment, and we all slipped and slid around on the bathroom floor,laughing hysterically. I surveyed the ridiculous scene around me, and for some

reason I couldn’t explain, I felt sorry for Marge.