squeaky clean

Some nights I don't want to do the dishes or clean up. At least until the junior members of the household have shuffled off to Buffalo, I've had some me time, and the house is quiet.

Then I'll clear up, fold laundry, whatever. It makes me feel good to know that when I wake up in the morning I don't have the congealed dishes lurking in the sink or six million billion quadrillion lots of toys left around.

Some days, though, this backfires.
Some days it's plain I should have been paying more attention.

Rosey was messing around in the kitchen this morning. She likes to load and unload the dishwasher (NOT discouraging that, no no!!) and feed the dog. The dog is happy, she gets to splash about in the sink, and usually this is a wonderful thing.

Usually.

Tonight (Umm, thirteen hours later??) I scooped up the dog's dish and thought idly "R must have been sharing her juice with Jasper again" as the bowl was half-full of pinkish fluid.
Except I couldn't rinse it out. And it smelled...fruity. Tropical, with a hint of....clean?


And when I asked her why Jasper's dish was half-full of dish soap, R shrugged.

"Jasper likes, Mama."