The Great Dog in Heat Apocalypse: A Household Falls

Panties, Paranoia, and a Washing Machine on Strike.

Hazel is in heat.

Which means she’s wearing the doggy equivalent of Depends and acting like she’s simultaneously starring in a soap opera and hiding from a leaf.

One minute she’s tragically misunderstood, the next she’s offended by her own shadow. Proper PMS energy.

Full method acting.

The panties, though.

Supposedly escape-proof.

Allegedly secure.

Hazel has developed Houdini-level skills and is getting out of them with the quiet confidence of someone who’s done this before.

I strongly suspect Eazy is the accomplice. There’s teamwork. There’s eye contact. There’s plausible deniability.

Nothing wakes you up faster than the sound of both dogs enthusiastically licking Hazel’s bum like they’re scraping the last drops out of an ice-cream bowl. It’s 6 a.m.

I didn’t ask for this. Nobody asked for this. Yet here we are.

We will also not linger on the odor.

Just know that the washing machine has formally requested time off, a union rep, and something industrial to remove the stench.

It’s running so often it’s started sighing when I walk into the room.

We’re only halfway through this hormonal saga.

Halfway!

If you don’t hear from me in the next few days, please send help.

Or wine.

Or a priest.

I’m not picky.