No more apologies.

The doors in my house are stained with smears of red mud, each one the width of a large dog paw.  It will not come off.  Not with bleach or soap or elbow grease.  The frame around the newest one has been chewed nearly in half, resembling a beaver’s mid-day snack.  Someday they will be fixed, but not when there is more to come.

 

 

 

I keep a “pet roller” around and use it regularly to remove dog hair from my couch.  But, even on the slick surface of pleather, hair manages to find its way back.  I don’t expect that problem will ever go away.

Carpet… perhaps the worst invention for pet owners… ever.  Mine is ripped near the door, started during a small dog’s fit of anxiety and advanced by each one after.  It features at least one accident from nearly every dog visitor I have had.  Certainly, this adds to an already obvious “doggie smell” in my house that I have become accustomed to.  One day, when the funds have been saved, it too will be replaced.

This weekend, we are expecting visitors.  Family members are traveling over 2,000 miles in order to stay in our home for a week.  Normally, I would be panicking, scrubbing even harder than normal.  Every turn would cause my frustration to mount, as I recognize the overwhelming amount of work to be done and face the fact that some of it simply cannot be fixed right now.  Not this time.

A few months ago, I reached an agreement with myself.  I will keep a clean house to the best of my ability and I will stop apologizing that it is not perfect.  No longer will I see the damage, stains and fur as a source of embarrassment, but instead as a source of pride.  Every ding and dent is a battle scar, earned through sacrifice, hard work and dedication.

I don’t expect that other people will understand it, much less accept it.  They don’t have to.  Only I do.

My cupboards have scratches on them, my yard is full of holes.  My windows are smeared, floors in a constant state of needing sweeping.  Baby gates, spilled food and kennels make the house a constant maze.  There are permanent stains on the concrete floors and that is okay.  Because if they didn’t, these dogs and so many others would not be alive.

 

 

 

 

A perfect house would mean nothing to anyone else.  My imperfect house means everything to each one of the fosters saved under this roof.

One look into their eyes eliminates my embarrassment and reminds me… I save lives here.