I'll tell you why we don't have a Dog . . .

We don’t have a pet, but our laundry has a life of its own.

It gets plenty of food.

· Today, Eila alone contributed egg yolk, prunes, yogurt, and strawberries.

We pet it, some more than others.

· “Esme, your shirt is not a napkin.”

It gets a good roll in the dirt, the grass, the mud.

· ~~Too~~ Often.

It can be found resting all around the house.

· Are those underwear on the couch? Is that a towel under the chair?

And it just keeps growing and growing and growing.

You know what it really needs? A bath.

It’s not that I dislike doing laundry. On the contrary, I enjoy laundry and the unexpected beauties of such a simple chore. I like hanging clothes to dry, the smell of fresh sun-dried towels, and warm bed sheets just out of the dryer. I like the lavender in the laundry soap, wooden clothes pins, and the satisfaction that comes with a stack of nicely folded clean laundry.

But for heaven’s sake, I just can’t get it done. Laundry is my arch-nemesis.

My laundry baskets came from the same factory as Mary Poppin’s carpet bag. Bottomless pits those dirty clothes hampers. And if, by chance, I happen to make some headway on the dirty clothes, all things evil in the universe come together and even the clean clothes conspire against me. They’re washed, they’re dried, they’re even folded. Why can’t I get them put away? I’m going to do it . . . I’m going to do it . . . I’m going to do it . . . Wait, it’s all dirty again. Never mind.