livin' la vida loca (the watered-down mix)
In more ways than one, we’re flashing back to the nineties this week, and, while there are plenty of Green Days in Washington, there’s not a Toad the Wet Sprocket in sight. Given their fondness for leafy areas, Isn’t it Ironic? (My fellow Gen Xers--and probably the Ys among you--will get the references. When it comes to Boomers, Millennials, and subsequent generations, you may, or you may not. If you fall into the latter group, I apologize if the confusion fills you with a yen for aggressively Smashing Pumpkins.)
But let's Macarena away from the musical Soundgarden for a moment and get to the crux of the story--the Oasis in our own backyard.
August in the Northwest began in a manner very un-August-like. Instead of feeling like pan-seared Red Hot Chili Peppers every time we stepped outside, the temperatures decreased to something milder, something almost pleasant. Mind you, I find anything over fifty-five degrees, Fahrenheit, teetering towards disagreeable, so my definition of "almost pleasant" would probably equate to Another Day in Paradise for most. (Okay, that one was technically 1989, but practically on the cusp of '90, so we're gonna let it Slide.)
This past Sunday, however, the sun's wrath returned, thrusting Washingtonians into another mini-heatwave forecast to endure through Tuesday. Maisie loves to be outdoors, but she's a big girl who, much like Scary Spice, has chosen a sartorial style that consists of a thick, multi-layered fur coat. (She grew it herself, so rest assured, fellow animal lovers, it is 100% natural, a wholly humane fashion statement, if also a heavily insulated one.) Keeping her cool on the hottest days often requires an indoor-only approach. Every once in a while, however, we try something new to provide her both outdoor recreation and the means to beat the heat on the worst of summer days. We generally fail. Our girl abhors water--puddles, creeks, lakes, surface waves along the ocean shore, she avoids them the way I avoid toxic substances: actual poisons and poisonous people alike. (And don't even get Maisie started on the subject of baths. Wipes are acceptable, encouraged even, but the whole tub ordeal is the kind of canine-rights violation that, given the opportunity, she'd vehemently address at the Geneva Conventions.)
The summer we'd presented her with the cool, inviting waters of her very own wading pool, she'd first made some distinctly snarky faces at us, then proceeded to keep a minimum distance of about fifteen feet between herself and the offending offering. Running through the sprinkler spray had been a concept stolen from our own Midwestern childhoods, where any relief from the muggy season had always been most welcome. If not for Maisie's expression upon Dennie's demonstration, we'd have gone through life continuing to believe sprinklers were a good idea. Now we know we are idiots, an Insane Clown Posse muddling the dog days of summer with our ludicrous notions. The water had gently rained down, this way, then that, as Maisie planted herself in the sunshine on the extreme opposite side of the yard, ignoring our animated antics while listening to songbirds and Counting Crows circling above.
You'd think I'd have given up on watery diversions for my dog. I'm not a Stupid Girl. I've recognized The Sign again and again. But we've watched Maisie grow and evolve through the last seven-and-a-half years, and she still frequently takes us by surprise. If I had to explain my reasoning to her, I'd say to my baby girl, "Everything I Do, I Do it for You," even if a particular act of nurturing seems destined to flop. In the late summer of 2024, we'd ordered for her an inflatable splash pad, but, by the time it had arrived, the weather had eased into a more hospitable zone. We'd set it aside, out of sight and out of mind until this past Sunday. Our hopes of success were not high, but the temperatures were.
As the thermometer dipped its toes back into the nineties, we splayed that splash pad over the lawn and filled it with water. Dennie kicked off her shoes and stepped onto the colorfully illustrated mat with the overly optimistic goal of encouraging Maisie to do the same. Judging from the initial yelp (from Dennie, not the pup), I gathered the water was like Ice Ice, Baby. In our most excited tones, we called to Maisie. Dennie kicked at the shallows. We laughed. We got super silly. We painted a living picture of summertime bliss that was not to be missed. In doing so, we'd recast ourselves as the ultimate Spin Doctors, promising big, big fun, refreshment, even the rejuvenating properties of the Fountain of Youth, albeit a less opulent fountain constructed of BPA-free PVC. Nothing worked. We moved on to Plan B--porcine peer pressure.
Piggy--a waterproof dog toy--emerged, valiantly prepared to save the day. He flew through the air, back and forth, between Dennie and me, piquing Maisie's curiosity. The aptly dressed pig splashed into the water. He floated on his back, staring serenely into a brilliant blue sky, but his efforts to entice Maisie proved ultimately fruitless. After Piggy wandered off to work on his tan and relish a little R.E.M sleep, Dennie and I surrendered, returning to our zero-gravity chairs to while away the afternoon, affectionately watching our dog savoring her decidedly not-wet sun bath. Fifteen minutes later, we were back on our feet with a bag full of training treats. Seven-and-a-half years after coming into our lives, Maisie continues to astound us. Step by Step, she made her way closer and closer to the pad, tentatively testing the water with one foot, then the other, and so on. She didn't jump backwards or dart out the other side. She stayed, all four paws submerged, waiting for another treat, acclimating to the strangely wet contraption. It's not the first time it occurred to us to go with edible bribery, but it is the first time it actually worked. As a mom who wholeheartedly adores that shepherd-beagle, it never got old watching her there--the look on her face, her body language--as she soaked in this new experience and, of course, waited for another treat with that adorable eager grin stretched over her face. From our perspective, seeing Maisie take her first voluntary steps into water, it was a genuine Hootie, with or without the Blowfish.
Maisie never did splash or romp through the water, nor did she settle into the soothing ripples for a restful soak, but she got in. That's the important thing. She tried something new, and, despite the heat, that, in itself, made for One Sweet Day. Keeping in the spirit of the nineties, I’d even say these moments with Maisie were a bit like Nirvana--a collection of idyllic memories worthy of a Heart-Shaped Box.
There are twenty-six 1990s music references in this post. To perpetuate the theme, I could have strived for a tally in the nineties, but it hit 97 degrees on Monday--You Oughta Know that's enough of the nineties for any rain-loving Northwesterner. Oops. My bad on the count. Thanks to Alanis, we'll make that twenty-seven now.
