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Chamois and the Bachelor

by John Arrington

Now you've gotta understand. I'm a bachelor. Always have been. And a bachelor does a lot of things differently than a man with a woman to take care of him. Toilet paper is a good example. Every place I go where there's a woman in command the toilet paper is stored on them little roller thingies ... you know the little deal on the wall that looks like a convenience handle for the handicapped. Not at my place. Toilet paper here resides on the floor next to my right foot when I'm using the facility and on the counter when I'm not. I like to pick up the roll and take two or three turns around my hand ... makes a nice, easy to use, efficient bundle. But all that may soon have to change ... you see, I have a female in my life with toilet paper on her mind. The female in question is Chamois, my 12 1/2 week old Lab pup.

This morning after her 5 AM rest stop in the back yard, I shuffled back to the bedroom, put her back in the crate, and answered an urgent call to cast my ballot in favor of requiring poodles to turn in their blow dryers and get sensible haircuts. As I sat there with my sweat pants around my ankles and nearly asleep, a tiny blonde head appeared followed by the rest of Chamois. My first thought was ... John, if you want the puppy to stay in the crate you should latch the door. My second thought and my first attempt at speech that morning were one and the same. Chamois was stalking the roll of toilet paper at my feet.

"NOOOO," I mumble-shouted, but it was too late. She pounced on the roll, gripped it in her mouth and took off in a butt tuckin' sprint. This presented me with only one option because Chamois had the last roll of paper in the house and if you will forgive my indelicacy ... I was in dire need of it.

I stood up and in my first try in almost 56 years at walking like a baby with a load in it's pants I almost killed myself. In my haste to get the paper before Chamois rendered it unusable, I'd forgotten about the sweat pants ... you remember the sweat pants around my ankles, don't you? Of course I tripped ... but the fat little Gods of disaster must have been sleeping because somehow I managed to avert a fall.

Down the hallway and out to the living room and kitchen I waddled. Chamois was nowhere in sight. Back down the hallway. Nope not in the office, not in the guest bedroom, not in the guest bathroom. Where was she? Ahhh, under my bed. Munching on the toilet paper. Chewing up little wads of it and spitting them out so she could tear off another hunk. I won't take up your time with the saga of retrieving the roll from under the bed, nor how I got it back from Chamois, but I ask you this, have you ever tried to use Lab spit soggy toilet paper that's as full of holes as a lace doily?

Maybe I'll have to start using that little roller thingie on the wall. Or find a woman who wants to take on a big project.

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