That grows in damp, poorly ventilated areas.
In my truck.
On my leather seat.
I have no doubt it’s there because I’ll keep Shep’s water bowl full on our long road trips and it will inevitably tip over and spill.
The seats are never unfolded in my little SUV, unless it’s cleaning time. It isn’t even really my truck.
You see, I’m a reformed Mustang girl.
She was my little princess, her sleek, cool lines and blazing red paint … her five-on-the-floor fun times, her throaty little growl when we stood at the post against some little Honda kid with a bumblebee exhaust.
She looked like this:
A real beauty, no?
We would spend hours together … her sitting in the sun and me going over her with wax and a soft cloth, cleaning out her edges with a new toothbrush … she was so clean you could eat off her floor.
But you weren’t allowed to eat in my Mustang.
That was 2000-2006.
Then this beast came into my life.
And I saw my lifestyle start to change.
I wanted to spend time with him in the mountains, climbing big hills and crossing streams and jumping into mud puddles.
We needed something a little more rugged.
Enter my little Escape.
I stopped caring what my truck looked like. It was full of dust and rocks and treats fallen between cracks and hair … oh Lord, the dog hair. Lookit, there isn’t a vacuum cleaner in the world that can conquer a maremma sheepdog hair.
You can name one and I will laugh. In fact, I challenge any vacuum cleaner company to send me a demo product to try and clean every last dog hair out of my truck.
Now fast forward to 2010. My American has entered our lives. He’s a bit on the clean and tidy side. He doesn’t believe me when I tell him about the former me, the Mustang girl who polished her baby from dawn til dusk and hated rainy days.
He looks at my truck in disgust, knowing full well when he cleaned it for me last spring, it was the first time a vacuum cleaner had seen the inside during the course of my ownership.
He steps into it with hesitance, knowing the very white dog hair floating in the air will weave its way into the threads of his very black fleece jacket.
And he turns up his nose at the persistent aroma of wet dog. Or is that the French fry lodged between the seats when Shep refused to eat it?
He visits tomorrow. I thought to clean my truck and surprise him. Instead, I had to send him the picture my discovery.
A little vinegar and water will take care of it, he says, not registering the slightest bit of shock that I’ve found mould in my truck.
It will be fine, he says, as I wonder whether the mould has found its way into the seat cushion and will I wake up one day with my entire interior engulfed in the gross, furry culture?
No, you won’t, he says.
I trust him.
I have to.
Because he puts up with me.