Ahhhh...Autumn. A slight chill in the air, harvest gold and deep red tinting the tree leaves, the scent of bonfires, and the opportunity for miniature dachshunds to spend lots of time outside rolling in the compost heap. I was grading papers this afternoon when Rachsie scratched at the back door after spending a leisurely hour outside. I got up and opened the door to Rachsie and Red Rocket who both bounded in (Maggie loves the outdoors and elected to stay lounging on the deck.) I prepared myself a cup of coffee and wandered back to the couch to continue grading - my two miniatures eagerly awaiting a lap to snooze in. Red Rocket climbed up first and rolled onto his back, Rachsie followed snuggling next to him, placing her paws delicately over his stomach. I contentedly opened another blue book. And then it struck me. The smell. The unmistakable odor of domesticated hunting dogs who still feel biologically compelled to mask their scent in the most foul smelling excrement they can find. Perhaps, I thought, I can live with it and let them nap before I take them to the tub. The blue book belonging to my brightest student was in my hand and I sailed through it. The next book was fair but I had trouble concentrating to grade it. By the third book all the artists, titles, and dates were swirling as the lack of oxygen caused by holding my breath started to make me dizzy. No more grading. Time to bathe Red Rancid and Poopy Princess. The combination of water and tropical coconut pineapple dog shampoo was the equivalent of putting Red Bull into their water dish. Released from the bathroom they have spent the last 30 minutes racing through the house, rubbing against the carpets and furiniture in an attempt to dispel their fruity aroma, and wrestling each other with vigor.
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