No one's ever accused me of being anal. Owning three dogs, along with my sub-par cleaning standards, helped build the kids' immune systems. I purposely didn't clean house for their sakes. Cobwebs don't scare me. Clutter is comforting. Noise makes me tense, but when it comes to house work, I'm as loose as the change in the couch.

One day a friend tells me, "I'm so bad. I only use a bath towel once and now the kids do the same." No wonder her mother-in-law stays at their house instead of a hotel. That's Four Seasons service. I don't pull towels until they can be used as drywall. They crack as I bend them into the washer. I love a fresh fluffy towel as much as the next person, but since I'm the maid, the towel bar has been lowered.

"When do you sleep if you're always washing towels? I'll bet you never need to change your bed sheets."

"Doing laundry is a constant and I do the bedding weekly. The thought of dust mites makes me scream."

Fresh sheets mean Christmas at my house. Mine are pilling and covered in mud spots where the dogs lick their paws clean. I vacuum the hair out before I resort to washing bed linens. Our dust mites need gastric bypass surgery.

The next day, feeling inspired by guilt, I strip my bed humming "We Need a Little Christmas." It's half-a-day's work to complete the task of washing all the bedding, but now I'm months ahead of schedule and feeling smug. Out, damned spots!

That night my husband gets home from work really late. Brad's too exhausted to notice the unseasonably Downy-fresh bedding and only has time to squeeze in a nap before commuting back to the city. He's snoring within minutes. Our Boston Terrier, Steamer, burrows under the sheets and curls up in the crook of my knees. I drift off intoxicated by the smell of fabric softener.

Around two a.m. I wake to Steamer making what every dog owner recognizes as pre-heaving sounds. While he's winding up to empty the contents of his stomach, I throw back the covers and kick him off the foot of the bed. He is startled mid-heave. As he flies off the bed, he explodes diarrhea like a pressurized can of gravy. Maybe Downy softens stools too.

Brad doesn't have time to move as I yank the bedding before anything can soak through to the mattress. It's like the old table cloth trick and Brad's the glass of red wine. Adrenaline really does give you super strength.

I carry Steamer downstairs, toss him outside, and run back up to get all the bedding down to the basement. Now I'm the one gagging. I want to snort fabric softener to camouflage the smell. I stuff whatever will fit into the washer. That's when I discover there is no detergent. I used the last of it when I washed the comforter and all the accompanying bedding hours earlier. Perfect.

I start the washer, spit into the hot water and go back to help Brad get settled. He's in a stupor. I break out the kids' sleeping bags. Without a mattress pad, the nylon sack slips around the satin-top mattress like a mammoth eel. Brad wriggles to the center of the bed clinging to the hope of getting a modicum of sleep.

I head back down to let Steamer in and block the stairs with a gate. Our exposed mattress is too vulnerable to risk him sleeping there. Upstairs and zipped in my bag, gravity slides me toward Brad. I sink into my comfort zone as Steamer starts whining. Brad grumbles something I can't repeat.

Steamer persists. I question the emotional cruelty of separating him from his pack. Maybe he needs to go out again? He is sick. He could be pleading for help and I'm just ignoring him. I'm a horrible person. I trudge downstairs and open the back door. Steamer is a black and white streak as he runs into the dark perimeter of the yard. A miraculous recovery.

I hear a scuffle and a yelp. He returns to the deck a broken spirit. His right eye, which protrudes to begin with, is now the size of a tennis ball with a deep seam where the swollen eyelids meet. The odor of fresh skunk burns my nostrils. The military gave up the idea of using skunk juice for crowd control. They should reconsider.

I try to relieve Steamer's distended eye with damp paper towels. He's never looked more pathetic. He probably thought the black and white silhouette in the dark was a lovelorn Boston. Pepe le Peu would have been proud of his crafty cousin. Steamer may never sniff another dog's hindquarters again.

I felt guilty leaving him downstairs, but now he has to sleep out on the deck. I sacrifice our stale, stiff towels and throw them, along with Steamer, into a dog crate. At least it's a beautiful summer evening. All our windows are open to the gentle evening breeze.

That summer breeze fills the house with the mind-numbing smell of defensive skunk. I tiptoe to the bottom of the stairs and whisper, so as not to wake the kids, "Brad...pssst, Brad! Steamer got skunked."

He doesn't seem at all concerned about waking the kids as he yells: "I KNOW! I just want to get some (expletives deleted) SLEEP!!"

Not the newsflash I thought it would be and no concern for Steamer whatsoever. Poor Steamer. I never should have strayed from my routine. Skunks are hibernating when I usually do the bedding mid-winter. The upside is, nobody will be entering our home anytime soon without a gas mask so I can avoid cleaning the bathrooms until Halloween. That should scare-the-hell out of my clean-freak-friend. I just hope her screams don't startle Steamer.