It was the perfect crime.
And Fargo was reveling in it.
Fargo, our four-month old puppy, had been nauseous of late, so when she barfed up half her lunch (and a few bits of pecan shell from the backyard, which might explain the nausea) Sunday afternoon, it wasn’t too much of a surprise. We were picking up the medicine from the vet the next day anyway. Up went the barf into garbage-bound paper towels. Into the washing machine went the doggy bed upon which she’d regurgitated. We carried on with our day.
When I took the bed out of the washing machine, I noticed it was leaking some stuffing. It’s been washed a lot of times. It was a frequent target of early housetraining revolts. I didn’t think much of it—just pulled out the more exposed pieces of fluff, threw them in the garbage, and set the bed to dry on a drying rack in the often-locked guest room where Fargo couldn’t get at it (she memorably tried to go Firdos Square Statue on said drying rack a few weeks ago when a mask was dangling from its corner). Later in the day, my wife started a load of laundry. The machine filled. The dial turned. The machine unexpectedly stopped.
There was a faint burning smell.
As we learned the next day, some of the fluff had gotten into the washing machine’s pump. Evidently this happens with socks a lot. A repairman came out and removed the fluff. The machine drained. We’d already taken my wife’s load of laundry to a friend’s, so when the repairman said it was fixed, we had no urgent reason to test his claim. Fargo, throughout the hour he was here, barked fiercely from her crate in the bedroom. I’m sure she was saying, “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!…” like in that Far Side cartoon, wanting to meet her visitor (she wants to meet every visitor, and most non-visitors), but I like to think she was saying, “Yeah, bitch! Yeah, motherfucker! I did that! I broke that washing machine! Fix it, punk!” in a rapturous celebration of her triumph over the order of this home.
Well, the tables turned.
Wednesday night, after Fargo rolled around in the mud for the…fifth straight day?…we set to washing the dirt-caked beach towels we use to wipe the mud off her paws (and occasionally her rump) when she comes inside from the rain. We put them in the washer. We poured detergent on them. We turned the dial to start the washer.
Nothing happened.
We reset the washer (evidently many washers reset if you open and close the door six times in a twelve-second span).
Nothing happened.
I let out a slurry of curse words.
Nothing happened.
Now, something you must know about those towels—to understand the full effect of the table-turning—is that Fargo loves them. Fargo loves to sleep on dirt-caked beach towels. Dirt-caked beach towels are her favorite thing upon which to sleep. She curls up on them. She sprawls out on them. She pulls them closer to her little always-sopping-wet-because-she’s-a-fluffer-and-lays-down-to-drink-her-water chin. Those beach towels are, far and away, the best nap spot in the house.
Yesterday morning, the beach towels were nowhere for Fargo to find. The beach towels were gone. The beach towels were in the washing machine Fargo broke.
To say Fargo was heartbroken would be a massive overstatement. She’s a puppy. She can sleep wherever. She probably only vaguely remembered that the beach towels even existed.
But she did look for them.
She did look for the beach towels.
And while she was probably thinking, *vague wordless thought about seeking something to lie upon*, I like to think she was thinking, “Shit. That really backfired on me.”
bitch had it coming