Holy cow is our yard a muddy mess and it’s not even spring yet.  All day Gavin and Patty blissfully played in the mud each time they went out.  When they came in, they looked like two mud wrestlers.  Patty took great joy in paw painting Dear Hubby’s jeans and shirt.  Gavin preferred to paw paint me.  They are mud bugs.

     My laundry basket runneth over.  Yea, though they run rampant through the yard and gardens, they fear no mud puddle.  For they know they can track a goodly supply of muck onto the kitchen floor.  Surely Mom’s wrath will follow, or at least, a toweling at the door.  Dad sits by in a muddle, paw printed from toe to neck.  Both dogs make a leap for his lap, oh no.  He yells, “What the heck?” 

     There’s mud on the walls three feet above the dogs.  How it got there, they aren’t telling.  I can’t blame them, because Dad was yelling.  Muddy paws wiped all day and the mop and bucket have gone astray. 

     Two exhausted dogs sleep.  Snores from crates emanate.  DH is off to bed and I am left to ruminate.