Magrilless

Or should I say, “Oh possum.”

At least I think it was a possum. It was bigger than a squirrel or a rabbit. And homogeneous in color (thus not a raccoon). But by the time I saw it, it was flat and shapeless and gooey. Ah, roadkill. The adventures we would miss without you.

Eliza spotted it first. Or smelled it first. Or maybe it was just pure instinct. In any case, by the time I was aware of it, Eliza had already gotten a good roll in it. Now before you ask me what I was doing walking down the road letting my dog go belly-up on the shoulder, we were actually in a residential neighborhood and the offending creature was so flat it was below the grass-line, in someone’s front lawn, just off the sidewalk. We were rounding a corner, and for all I knew Eliza was diving for a particularly chomp-worthy stick. But it wasn’t a stick. It was gross.

We were half a mile from home. I now walked in the middle of the street and told her to stay near the gutter. She was very excited about her newly acquired perfume. The application of which also afforded her coat a new pattern. Lots of new spots — or more like smears — to make a girl puppy feel special. And the whole way I was thinking, “I’m going to have to get this off of her. I’m going to have to get in the shower with her and rub my hands in roadkill guts.” I could smell her all the way over here.

Yes, I considered the backyard and a hose. But it was cold. We had the first flurries of the season on Saturday. And she’s terrified of the hose and so would not have stayed in place. It would have meant me also getting cold and wet and roadkill-smeared. I also considered dipping her in bleach. But I thought this might be a tad irresponsible, although achieving the desired short-term results.

So she stayed in the backyard (I took my end of the leash inside and closed it in the door, with her outside — I was not touching her if I didn’t have to) while I readied the shower and stripped. “Okay. Here we go, Eliza! No! No stopping! Straight to the bathroom. Now, in the tub! I know you hate the shower. I know. But get in! I’m not going to pick you up to throw you in. I’m not. Stop backing up! Don’t touch me! No! Ok, get in the tub. Get in the tub! I don’t want to have to pick you up. I don’t want to. Please, get in the tub. Oh, lord, you smell bad. This is a very small space. Please, get in the tub? Please? FINE! I’ll pick you up. Oh, you smell. Ok. Here we go. Ugh! Ugh! Oh, my gosh! Gross! Viscera! Uck! And hot water does not make it better! Ugh! Open window open window open window. Ahhhh [with screen up and head actually out window]. Ok. Here we go. Gotta do this. Ok. Shampoo.”

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Twice. Bleach the bathtub. Bleach the leash. Immediately launder the walking clothes and collar. Vow to never walk anywhere but the middle of the street ever again.

Gross.

Yesterday the boss asked me to pick up a project from a coworker who had called in sick. The book is close to deadline, so he didn’t want to let it sit over the weekend, nearly finished. No problem. Oh, there are some font issues — my computer will need some mickey-mousing to get the fonts to load correctly. Delete true type fonts from the type manager. Delete true type fonts from the font pack. Load Adobe fonts to the font pack. Export new font pack to the book’s directory. And then shut down and reboot to make sure everything is applied. Well, heck, there are only a couple chapters left. Why don’t you just work on her machine (which has all the settings already)? That will just make less work for all of us. Ok. Sure.

Are those dirty dishes in her cubicle? Yes. Not even rinsed? No. That’s instant oatmeal caked on that plastic, isn’t it? Yes. Do I know how long they’ve been in there. I don’t want to know.

Look at this mouse, people! That’s not the mouse manufacturer telling you where to put your fingers to click the buttons: “Cover the black dots on the mouse with the fingers of your right hand and click.” No. That’s dirt. Months and months of ickiness building up until it has formed a tangible, sticky, disgusting grime. This is the mouse I had to use yesterday.

You can’t see the keyboard, but the keys are completely cake underneath with . . . crumbs? Pleeeease be crumbs and not body flakes that have sloughed off over the years. Really, I’m surprised the keys can be depressed at all, that there’s any room under them to push them down.

And just generally there’s a bunch of junk all over the place cluttering the whole counter. I honestly had trouble finding room to place the manuscript I was working from. I ended up clearing away an 8-1/2 by 11 space to put pages once I had made corrections on them, and keeping the yet-to-look-at pages in my lap or on top of the keyboard if there was just mouse-work and no typing on that page.

So I sat perched on the very edge of her chair for the hours that I had to spend in there. I had to stop myself every time I went to scratch my nose or put my hair behind my ear or anything involving taking my hands off her equipment. No! Don’t touch! Not until you’ve washed with soap and warm water up to your elbows!

My cubicle has never felt so much like home. Home sweet ick-free home.