Dorothy's Way

I was working my way through the morning emails and halfway listening to the latest dismal round of political news on Morning Edition when there was a soft knock on the front door. There was instant mayhem as all four work dogs spilled into the room, barking frantically and running in circles, attacking the door and me and each other in a mad rush. I could barely hear myself think.

Just getting to the door was like trying to wade through a nest of frenzied alligators. The old pit slammed against my thigh repeatedly, the cur dog tore at him like a bone, and the two little ones shrieked and howled and danced around my feet like dervishes, biting and snatching at anything that moved.

“Hush!” I shouted above the roar, “Hush up and move, damn it!”

I could see Michael's mother through the glass panes, smiling at me and shaking her head at the commotion. She began calling each of the dogs by name as if to reassure them but all it did was raise the noise level by half and cause greater chaos. I got the door unlocked and stepped back, dragging the two big dogs by their collars and yelling for help from Michael. Dorothy came in and was immediately set upon. She is a small woman, shrunken by age and osteoporosis and more than a little fragile with skin like tissue paper and bones like china. One good hip block would easily produce a fracture if she were to be knocked down and one good scratch would be bloody and painful. She is also a fussy woman with strong opinions and a grim determination to have her own way. She has come (uninvited) to bring law and order and hygiene to Michael's house, whether he wants it or not. A mother and son confrontation is inevitable.

“Dear Barbara,” she tells me as she fends off the little dogs without much success, “I don't know how you manage.”

The cur dog gives a sudden yank and I lose my grip. He's on her in a second, joyfully jumping and pawing and salivating. She gives a little scream and falls backward into a chair with a thud. I abandon the pit, grab the cur by the collar and haul him backwards but he's a strong and healthy dog and it takes everything I have to hold him. The pit tries awkwardly to get around me, aiming, I'm sure, to climb into her lap, but I position myself and the cur in his way and block him. Fortunately for us all, he's an old and slow moving freight train of a dog without an ounce of aggression but he's massive and graceless and doesn't know his own strength. It can take a 2x4 just to get his attention and you might as well try and move a cow as displace him.

“No!” Dorothy is telling one of the small dogs, “Get down! Oh, my word, those nails!” She flails at him, nowhere near as helplessly as she would like it to appear but more than enough to make me feel guilty.  When reason doesn't work, she gives him a smart smack on the nose and looks pleased with herself.

“MICHAEL!” I finally roar, “WILL YOU PLEASE GET IN HERE!”

Dorothy has brought every cleaning product and tool she could lay her hands on. Between the three of us, we carry in one cardboard after another and another. There are numerous bottles of bleach and disinfectant, a gallon jug of Windex, a 12 pack of paper towels, four bottles of drain opener, two cans of lemon scented furniture polish. There are plastic buckets full of dishwashing detergent and hand soap and family size spray bottles of Febreze. The trunk of her cars offers a startling assortment of sponges, mops and wire scrub brushes and lint rollers. She unpacks and organizes every item, carefully arranging and laying them out according to their purpose.

“I'm going to start with the kitchen,” she announces briskly, “But I'll be here all day and some of tomorrow. It may take some time to pull all this carpet up.”

“Pull the carpet up?” Michael asks sharply, “We're not pulling any carpet up. Stanley Steemer can......”

“Don't be an idiot, son,” she says with an airy, dismissive wave, “Any fool can see these urine stains are embedded and go all the way to the foundation! Why, it'll be a miracle if the floors can be salvaged!”

“Where are you going to sleep?” I ask hesitantly.

“On the blue couch in the living room,” she says calmly, just as if the living room were not littered with dog waste and trash and empty dogfood containers. And, to be charitable, smelled vaguely like an outhouse.

“When hell freezes over!” Michael thunders at her and storms out of the room.

She ignores this outburst and continues with her unpacking, at one point giving me a frown and saying, “Dear Barbara, you do know he wasn't raised like this and we certainly don't live this way.” She waits for me to assure her, seeming to have forgotten that I've seen her perfectly kept, pristine home and that I know her dogs spend the majority of their time behind a gate in a utility room and are not only housebroken but trained in manners as well. When I nod, she resumes.

“The old place was bad but this..........this is........well, it's horrific. And appalling. And probably toxic. I don't wonder his health is so poor. Once we've put things right, you can help me find him a maid or a cleaning service. And these dogs! Let me tell you, their days of running this house are over! People are going to start coming first or I'll know the reason why! Dear Lord, the filth! You'd think a bunch of coloreds lived here! How you can run a business when you're too ashamed to let people see how you live.......well, poor eyesight or not, I won't have it. Do you see a bottle of oil soap, dear? You know, people, even the best people, go to the penitentiary for tax evasion but that's for another day. Did you know there are ants in the kitchen, dear? Why, they're practically swarming like bees! I do hope I remembered that extra can of Raid. I did not raise my children to live like trailer park trash!”

When confronted with a force of nature – fire, flood, tsunami or a single minded, disgusted mother – the chief difficulty is not getting caught in its approach or its wake. I felt it was time to make a strategic exit.

“Of course, dear Barbara,” Dorothy tells me generously, “I'm sure he often overlooks the fact that you have your own life. You run along. I'll soon have things here in order. I expect you won't recognize the place by Monday. Ah.......here's the Raid!”

She shivers delicately and gets to her feet with a small arthritic groan.

“Michael!” she sings out, “Come in here, son, I'm going to teach you how to properly polish furniture before you learn how to mop a floor!”

Not sure what to expect, I turn the key on Monday morning and walk into a house I barely recognize. It smells of air freshener and flowers. There's not a speck of dust or a dogfood container in sight. The waste baskets are lined, the shelves are neatened, the rooms arranged without a single throw pillow torn to bits. The ceiling fans turn whisper-quiet, all the kitchen drawers now open and every stick of furniture has been de-dog-haired. One end of the kitchen has been securely gated off and made into a feeding and play area. The kennels and pet carriers have been scrubbed clean, padded with newly washed blankets, and neatly arranged beneath the windows. Even the dogfood is carefully organized in one corner. The only battle Dorothy appears to have lost is the carpet and even that's a draw - it's still in place but clearly has been industrially cleaned and treated – and best of all, an assortment of colorful new throw rugs cover the worst areas and there's not a single new urine stain anywhere.

God bless the primal forces of motherhood and a woman whose way is the only right way.