There’s been quite a commotion around my house this summer as a seemingly endless number of craftsmen go about the somewhat curious task of remodeling our kitchen.
Now generally I take a welcoming attitude toward whomever walks through our doors.Â Human guests are invariably given the royal treatment with a full wag andÂ swagger, while fellow canines are politely shown around the premises with a mi casa, su casa nod to make themselves at home.
Even lowlier life forms such as a small field mouse scampering across the bathroom floor drew a live and let live reaction, hardly the response of my mistress followed by her crazed (to my mind) suggestion that maybe what this house needed was a c-a-t.
But this new parade of workers was a horse of a different color (nothing wrong with that.) Instead of the polite conversation and spot of tea that awaited most guests this army proceeded ant-like (nothing wrong with ants) to start tearing up the place amid promises of a spanking new kitchen the likes of which had never been seen before.
Not that there was anything wrong with the old kitchen that I could see. I mean it hadn’t been struck by lightning or hit by a tree. In fairness I suppose I should add that I am not a great judge of kitchens as frankly, I have never seen their point.
After all, for my entire life my food has arrived out of a bag, uncooked, unrefrigerated in a single dish that hardly ever saw the inside of dish washer, so that just about all kitchen appliances would be largely wasted on me. Nor did I understand the pronouncement that the shelves and cabinetry appeared “tired” (whatever that means) and due for an “upgrade”, an opinion that I secretly feared might someday be applied to me.
Nevertheless, I don’t exactly call the shots around here and hence the daily procession of carpenters, painters, electricians and plumbers tramping (nothing wrong with tramping) through the house each promising to beautify the place but leaving a trail of dust and debris in an effort to do so.
I of course remained ever gracious, welcoming these strangers, accepting the usual good dog compliments (they seemed to be dog-friendly crew) and then stepping out of the way as they went about their mayhem. And sure enough phoenix like (nothing wrong with them in a mythological way ) out of the seeming rubble a new and presumably less tired kitchen began to appear.
I can now say that after several weeks of displacement my new kitchen is the pride and joy of my mistress and the envy of human visitors (canines remain understandably less impressed) who go about the odd ritual of opening and closing cabinets, dishwashers, and refrigerator doors to no apparent purpose other than they can and showering them with high praise usually reserved for well, me.
My meals continue to arrive in the usual way in my one largely unwashed dish (not that I’m complaining) and life appears to have returned to somewhat normal with the army of workers decamping to other battlefields where they are presumably tearing down walls and ripping up floors with the promise of future invigoration.
I must say that in the way of most guests I was happy to see them coming and less than heartbroken to see them go. Perhaps one day they will be invited like true guests to see the fruits of their labors and stay for a spot of tea. They can leave their tools at home.