I am working at home today. And no, that’s not the exercise in futility, although it could be. I have paperwork to complete, treatment summaries to write– odds and ends that don’t involve patient care. I am working at home because today, the carpet layers are putting in my brand new wall to wall carpet. A month ago, when the painters were putting in my brand new wall to wall paint, I found myself relieved of a camera, an iPad, a Nook reader, my grandmother’s diamond necklace and $200 cash hidden, obviously, in an underwear drawer. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—you can’t get fooled again” as George Bush famously said. My new plastic bathroom is being installed today too.
The exercise in futility, as my fellow pet lovers will readily attest to, is the new carpet. When we moved into this house fifteen years ago, the carpet was already worn and stained by the treasured and precious (aren’t they all?) beasts of the former owners. No amount of cleaning or convincing could persuade the current inhabitants that my living room was not to be used as a toilet. Especially the little dog, Jack. There is most definitely an inverse correlation between dog size and ego, with ego proportionate to the compulsion to mark territory. I was in luck, however. The prior owners had considered the possibility that accidents do happen, and their choice of color was the sadly dated, but tremendously camouflaging “Harvest Gold”. Circa 1970. Yes, you read that right.
When I went to choose new carpet, I had only two absolute criteria: That the color have not a HINT of yellow or gold, and that it be treated with Stainmaster to the max. Actually I chose a wonderful distressed walnut hardwood, just the right amount of roughing up to disguise the toenail marks of the deerhounds as they chase each other around the house. But my pocketbook chose otherwise. So today I watch, as the carpet guys install a beautiful pale taupe ultra Stainmaster synthetic, with a subtle criss cross pattern, ever so tasteful and elegant. And as I watch, I wonder, who will be the first to despoil my unbesmirched and freshly non-fragrant footing.
I leave for Colorado on Friday morning to transport my father’s art work to San Diego. My husband is in charge of the animals. If I come home to a urine stain on my new carpet, or the contents of the unfortunate cat’s stomach, I swear, there will be a bloodbath. And I’m not sure who—the guardian or the ward—will go first. I’ll let you know what happens.