"Oh no, it's THE TYPHOONIGATOR!!!"

That’s code for the blow dryer. One of two of Olive’s most hated appliances. The other of course, being the vacuum. She’s actually not too bad if she’s allowed to observe these monsters with their endless tails from a distance. Like from the planet Pluto. She seems to feel safe as long as she’s loose in the house when I use either. She’s like a cop tailing a suspected perp. She stays just far enough away to not blow her cover, but continues tracking like an animated GPS. I imagine that her intermittent barking, more an indication of her displeasure, is like a GPS that screams at you while driving. “TURN LEFT YOU F’ING IDIOT. RECALCULATING. TURN RIGHT YOU F’ING MORON. RECALCULATING. NOW WE HAVE TO TAKE THE LONG WAY YOU TOOL. RECALCULATING. WHY NOT TRY FLYING INSTEAD PINHEAD?”

Crating her during these activities I learned, is not a good idea. I’m guessing she feels threatened because she’s essentially trapped. She barks so much that dog foam and spittle coats the bars on her crate like vinyl. And that stuff, just like its counterpart which I call dog “nose paste,” and which you’ll find smeared across all the nose-level windows in the car and the house, is like glue. Really, the back window of my car looks like Monet dipped his brush in Olive’s spittle before applying it to a huge glass canvas. Christ, you need a 10,000 PSI pressure washer to strip that goo off. There’s probably enough DNA in there to clone Olive. Oh, now there’s an idea. Two Olives. Olive and Oyl.