The Lavender Tsunami and the Great Pool Slide Barricade

Dear Mary,

Please accept my most sincere apologies for the state of the downstairs guest bathroom. I know you specifically asked me to keep the “Sanctuary Suite” pristine for your mother’s arrival this evening, and I truly regret that the Egyptian cotton towels now smell faintly of low-tide and desperation.

It started simply enough. I was attempting a proactive grooming session with Brodi. As you know, at two years old, Brodi is less of a Golden Retriever and more of a 75-pound ball of kinetic fur. He had discovered a particularly aromatic patch of what I hope was just compost near the north fence. In the interest of domestic harmony, I decided to bathe him in the guest tub to avoid getting the "good" bathroom all wet and hairy.

I apologize for the missing shower curtain. It turns out that when Brodi hears the specific frequency of a running faucet, he doesn’t see a bath; he sees a Ninja challenge. In the ensuing struggle for dominance, the shower rod became a casualty of war. I have tucked the shredded plastic into the recycling bin, though you might notice the drywall near the ceiling is a bit… spirited now.

This leads me to the matter of the plumbing. While I was attempting to detangle a particularly stubborn burr from Brodi’s tail, he executed a perfect tactical wet-dog shake. The sheer centrifugal force sent the industrial-sized bottle of "Lavender Fields" shampoo into the air. It didn’t just fall, Mary; it launched. It hit the toilet tank with such precision that it cracked the porcelain lid, which then fell into the bowl, triggering a sequence of events that I can only describe as a localized monsoon.

I am sorry about the hallway carpet. To stem the flow of the Lavender Tsunami, I used the decorative throw rugs from the foyer. They were remarkably absorbent, though they are now permanently dyed a shade I’d call "Soggy Earth."

I must also apologize for the presence of the local Fire Department. You see, when the water reached the floor vent, it tripped a circuit, which resulted in a very small, very brief, but very smoky protest from the HVAC system. I panicked—only slightly—and triggered the smart-home alarm. Brodi, sensing my distress and the arrival of men in high-visibility jackets and respirators, decided to "protect" the house by dragging the neighbor’s inflatable pool slide (which was drying on their lawn) through the back sliding door and into the kitchen to create a barricade.

The kitchen island is mostly fine, provided you don't look at the underside.

As of twenty minutes ago, the water is off. The firemen were very complimentary of Brodi’s spirit, though they did advise against using a leaf blower to dry a Golden Retriever indoors. That explains the feathers. I don't know where he found a pillow to destroy in the forty-five seconds I was talking to Captain Miller, but the living room now looks like a low-budget winter wonderland.

I’ve left a bottle of wine on the counter. It’s the expensive one we were saving for your promotion. I figured since your mother is currently pulling into the driveway and the front door is temporarily jammed shut by a deflated vinyl giraffe, we’re going to need it.

I am deeply sorry for the inconvenience. Brodi is currently napping on your yoga mat. He looks like an angel.

Should I start the insurance claim now, or would you like to scream into a pillow first?