Sparky was intrigued by my account of cleaning out the clogged storm drain.  He understood that he couldn’t help because it was too close to the road. 

I was showing Sparky how it looked when I was done.

Sparky mostly wanted to know what it smelled like.

“Did it smell like rabbits?”  No.

“Did it smell like a dead racoon?”  No.

“Did you ever see a coyote?”  Yes, I was with you, you chased it and I had to go looking for you in the woods.  No, I did not see a coyote in the storm drain.

“What do your feet smell like?  Can I lick them?”  I took a shower, my feet smell like Irish Spring soap, and no, you can’t lick my feet.  Don’t lick anything.  Lick Mr. Moose or that bird-mouse.

I hated to see the look of disappointment on Sparky’s face, so I told him that my Crocs hadn’t been washed.  That perked him up.  He could sniff and lick my Crocs all day if he wanted.

It was only rain water, so the Crocs had been rinsed to wash the sand off.  I wasn’t going to wash them, but after Sparky is done slobbering, the Crocs will get washed.