So, this morning, as I was getting out of my shower, my dog, Bear, went nuts.
This happens quite frequently (he has a jogger fetish) so I ignored it.
Five minutes later, he's still at it. Barking feverishly. Whining. Racing up and down the stairs trying to communicate with his DENSE owner that he really wanted to go out. Now.
It occured to me that joggers generally don't take five minutes to pass my house. On the heels of that revelation was the memory of a nasty bout of doggy diarrhea six months ago. (I still shudder to think of the smell.)
I decided to let Bear out. Immediately.
I raced out of my bathroom sans clothing. Why not? I'm home alone. My neighbors work. It's a quick little jaunt to the back door. No problem.
My old green bathrobe was lying by my bedroom door and I grabbed it as an afterthought. Don't ask me why. Maybe my latent anti-humiliation gene, completely dormant until now, suddenly kicked into gear.
I went downstairs, ran to the backdoor, unlocked it and turned the knob when suddenly a man was there, standing on my deck, looking straight at me through my uncurtained glass door.
The pest control guy.
If I'd neglected to grab my bathrobe I feel quite confident he would have screamed too.
Thank God for bathrobes.