In which my dead dog gets the last laugh.

I tried something new and crazy.

I did the kind of cleaning where you actually move stuff. Like, instead of just vacuuming around things, you move the things, and vacuum in those spaces, too.

I understand that some people do this regularly. I don't know these people.

So, anyway, I tried this new fancy cleaning. It left me feeling virtuous and slightly better than everybody else. Well, until I moved something and found dog pee.

Yes. I moved a metal storage bucket that's permanently next to the bookshelf in my office. Because sometimes, you just have stuff that belongs on the floor, and it's fine, and that's just how it is.

Unless you live with a dog who marks, a dog who does not like stuff on the floor, even furniture.

My late little Foxie Doxie was one such dog. He believed that all furniture should levitate off the floor. If it didn't, it was fair game, and he claimed it. And by "claim," I mean "peed all over."

So, the metal storage bucket thing? I picked it up and was immediately assaulted by the stench of months-old pee.

Foxie Doxie had marked the bucket. I know it was him, because the other dogs aren't markers. Lil' Frankfurter pees wherever he likes, but he's not one to mark.

But Foxie? He was an Olympic-caliber marker. And he left me one final, odoriferous gift.

I imagined him watching me from doggie heaven, satisfied that there was no doubt that the metal bucket was his. And I pictured him looking nonplussed and trotting away when I bellowed his name.

What?

The smell was ... ridiculous. The puddle had just sat there, melding with the bucket and the floor. Steam mops, baking soda, and cursing were required.

I miss that little devil.

Also? This is why you should never do the kind of cleaning where you move stuff.