The dog smell can no longer be ignored. I either have to call the dog groomer and shell out some serious cash, or I have to bite the bullet and revisit doing it myself. I decide I can handle this. I have a momentary flash-back to mud flying across my house and running after two wet dogs while screaming unprintable words. Then I see the last groomer's bill. My cheaper nature wins out, and I push aside the horrors of the last attempt. I can do this. I am a grown woman. I have given birth. I have climbed a mountain. I have watched Criminal Minds at midnight with no one home ... why am I allowing the thought of bathing two Golden Retrievers scare me? I reaffirm that I can do this.

They look so innocent staring up at me with their matted hair and goofy grins. I grab my special order dog-bathing hose attachment, special shed-free shampoo, five dog towels, leashes, and a plan. They are following me around watching my every move. I sense that they too are devising a plan.  

Having learned to divide and conquer from my last attempt, I tackle bathing them one at a time. It is going pretty smoothly. This isn't so bad, I think. One done. OK, so I’m soaked. And cold. I was prepared for that. I put my monster male in the bathroom. So far, so good. My female proves more challenging as she continues to lay on her back and wiggle trying to escape the water. Soap flies everywhere. I get a little in my eye. I now have a twitch. It’s OK. I can live with a twitchy eye. I feel empowered.

I then realize all 5 towels are soaked from dog number one. I decide to put her in the bathroom with the other one while I contemplate the drying issue.

The blow-dryer proved ill-conceived last time. No one got dry, and I burned out the machine. I look in the garage for inspiration. Leaf- blower it is! I haul it back into the house and plug it in as the two scoot on their backs and attempt to knock me down. I momentarily entertain the idea that they are plotting to defeat me. I am not going down without a fight.

I turn on the blower and pandemonium breaks out. My male begins to scoot at breakneck speed on his back as my female runs panicked in and out of the extension cord. In seconds, the two are completely tangled in the cording, the floor is a skating rink and I am on the floor on my back struggling to keep the leaf-blower from knocking me in the head. I turn it off. That did not go as planned. Everyone calms down and the two are now staring at me. Everyone is panting and a little sweaty. My female appears traumatized.

My dog-towels are soaked from the bath experience. I am forced to mop up the floor with my good towels. Not to be daunted, I gather up all the wet towels, vow to buy new ones, and place the lot in the washing machine. I leave the dogs in the bathroom and regain my composure. I am only slightly bruised. I'll live.

I decide to go back to the blow-dryer. It was only twenty dollars. I begin the tedious process of towel-drying and blow-drying. Then, I hear the tell-tale sounds of the washer going off-balance. I choose to ignore it. It gets louder. I begin to have visions of it walking and crashing through sheet rock. This would dramatically cut into my savings on the project. I abandon the blow drying and the dogs to fix the washer. More cussing as I notice the washer on its way out of the laundry room. Three minutes later I return.

Disaster has struck. The two demon dogs have broken into the closet and shredded their dog beds. There are chunks of foam filler all over the closet -- top to bottom -- all over clothes, embedded in shoes. I scream. They look up momentarily distracted. I go to get the broom and dustpan. More cursing. I return and open the door. Both dogs shoot out knocking me off my feet again, a trail of foam pieces following them throughout the house. More bruising. Some crying. I slowly begin the clean-up process and acknowledge that I am no match for my two Goldens.

I take a photo of the demolition and post it on my fridge next to the number for the groomer.