Slippery when wet

Today it rained off and on, which is a blessing considering that Atlanta is still suffering from a drought. Yesterday was stormy as well, and so the dog hadn't had any decent exercise in a while. We found out how she felt about it when we came home from Guitar Center yesterday to find what was left of the book that I had borrowed only hours earlier from my neighbor M. Before yesterday, the only canine casualties in the house had been one of the most delicious running socks ever invented, the grey yoga pants my mom made for me, and three of the corners of her own bed. Cause and effect with long delays between the cause (chewing one's bed) and the effect (sleeping on the floor instead of one's formerly cushy bed) aren't lessons readily learned by dogs, apparently.

After several months of keeping her in her crate whenever we left the house, we started giving her the run of the first floor a few weeks ago with no problems so far; so I was stunned and more than a little angry to find the still-wet shredded bits of book strewn about the entrance way. Maddie got a scolding and some bitter apple spray. We got a reminder about how much exercise she needs. (We also think the thunderstorm might have scared some naughtiness in her, or perhaps smelling M's dog Emma on it may have aroused some jealousy.)

Today, in between thunder showers, we took a drive over to the dog park. When we first arrived, we thought we were the only pet owners crazy enough to bring their dog (never mind white dog) to the wet, muddy park. However, as we strolled the short path inside the fenced area, a short encounter with a sopping-wet labradoodle reminded us about the little beach by a widened area of the creek that lay a few hundred feet away. We decided it was warm enough for a romp in the water. These pictures are from a hike we took on an abnormally warm weekend in February, but Maddie exuded just as much glee today as then, her first time to play in water:

On the hike down to the creek through rapidly growing weeds and vines, I slipped more than a few times on slippery patches of mud. When we decided to head back to the car, Ryan slipped on the embankment leading from the creek shore to the main path. Finally feeling vindicated that I wasn't the only who had lost her balance today, I said, "See? That's what I was slipping on before."

Ryan reached his hand out to help me up the same bank, and my feet promptly slipped completely from underneath me. I fell flat on my stomach, face first into the mud; as I landed, a broken branch fell on my head. I was covered in slimy mud the color of newborn baby poo. When I took my Treo out of my coat pocket to make sure the fall hadn't broken it, I saw that the hard landing had created an event on my calendar, entitled: "Eeee."

I'm going to leave it there, it seems to fit.