The Rug Doctor

You can rent one at the grocery store for twenty dollars.

A bargain if your dog, like mine, is frightened of thunderstorms,
and you happen to leave Austin during the single two-week period in which
it rains ten days out of fourteen, never mind that the rest of the year
is dry as toast, and it just so happens that your otherwise beautifully
house-trained dog's favorite mode of expressing his fear is to pee,
emphatically, on your bedroom's most absorbent surfaces,
read: duvet cover, plush pillow, and at least nine different spots on the carpet.

The pillow and duvet you can toss in the wash, but the carpet is a different issue.

Your roommate, bless her heart, will have sprayed some of that
pet stain-remover on the carpet the morning before your return,
but this job is bigger than a spray.
This was two weeks of what appears to be your dog's entire body weight
in fear-induced urination, and it will require a whole bottle of white vinegar,
a family-sized box of baking soda, the lavender water you got from your
hippie neighbor, and yes, the Rug Doctor.

At first you will be irritated: irritated that your obviously neglectful roommate
was not home every minute of the day to comfort your poor, terrified pooch.
Irritated with the aforementioned terrified pooch for not having a more
constructive coping mechanism for what most people would consider
arguably harmless weather. Irritated with the weight of the
Rug Doctor itself, as you lug the machine by its red plastic handle
across the parking lot of the H-E-B, into your house, and clunkingly
up the stairs to your bedroom, where every moveable object
has been stacked into precarious towers atop the bed or dresser.

You will cuss after misreading the fully-illustrated instructions that come
with the Rug Doctor, because you will have, with almost comic inevitability,
managed to fill the wrong tank with hot, soapy water.
When the man at H-E-B had laughed and said that the Rug Doctor
was idiot-proof, he evidently was not thinking very creatively.

But once you turn the machine on, and slowly pull it backwards
across the carpet, you will find a sort of meditative rhythm:
the rock-step-pull, the rising smell of soap, and the realization
that you have been wanting for a long time to feel really clean.
As you pour out the tank of dirty water into the tub,
you will take pleasure in having removed that dirt
from your bedroom sanctuary. You will wish that all stains
were so easily rendered innocuous.

It will storm again, the night after you clean the carpet,
but this time you will be home. You will hold your dog,
press his shaking body to your chest, and remind him
that he is safe. But even if he forgets, gets scared,
and pees on whatever is handy, it's okay.

You can call for the Rug Doctor in the morning.