I’m in the laundry olympics today, and plan to take home the gold for most loads washed/dried/folded.
It’s 10 am and I’ve already filled my dining room table, which, you see, is not an insignificant amount.
Little J frequently “helps” by moving wet laundry from the washer (I have a front-load, so everything’s in his reach) into the dryer, putting in the dryer sheet, emptying the lint screen, etc.
George Muttley also enjoys hanging out when we’re laundering, because he gets to explore the insides of the machines as they are emptied.
This morning, though, I’m on a strict schedule. I have to be done by noon so we can drive south to celebrate the Day the Native Americans Made a Big Mistake and Welcomed the Puritans to North America, Little Did They Know the Similarities Between the Words Pilgrim and Pillage Weren’t Only Phonetic.
So, I switch loads, hurriedly. J wanders in to clean the lint screen as I’m shoving wet clothes into the dryer. My dryer is old and the opening isn’t nice and wide like it could be, so there’s an amount of forcing going on. J throws in the the dryer sheet, I slam the door, and I move to the dining room to fold the next load. J climbs up on the catfood bin next to the dryer and hits the start button for me, like he always does.
As I’m sorting what seems to be several trillion pairs of socks, a sound makes me hesitate.
It sounds like there’s a shoe in the dryer. But there’s no shoe in the dryer, for sure. Little J’s coat is in there, which is probably heavier than the dryer’s normal fare, but it should not be
I fold a few more socks, wracking my brain to figure out what might be in there. I decide there must have been a something in there of Big J’s–he’s notorious for filling socks with rocks and leaving all manner of unwashables in his pockets. I decide I should probably retrieve what ever it is, lest it dent my already-limping-along-dryer.
I walk in and open the dryer door and jump back with a small yelp. There’s an ANIMAL in my dryer and it looks like a SKUNK.
Oh, no, it’s only George.
I grabbed him out and he immediately threw himself from my hands to escape the torturous hell I’ve subjected him to. He ambled crookedly into the dining room and collapsed under the safety of a chair, looking pointedly at me. I reached down to tell him I was sorry, that I really did not know he was in there, and he accepted by apology with a rumble of a purr.
All told, he was probably in there for less than 60 seconds. I’m sure for him it was an eternity.