It stops, the sound of the basketball bouncing from the ground, the ground now worn bare of all grass, the ground from which the recognizable thud comes at all hours of the day and night. And now that it has stopped, I wait for the sound of the door, wait for my son to burst forth into the room like a big, wet dog who galumphs his way up the banks of a river after a refreshing swim, the dog to whom we give a wide berth in anticipation of his shaking a shower, the shower that has the flopping of ears for thunder, the flash of his collar for lightning. But I don’t shy away from my son because I fear that he’ll get me wet; I shy away because he stinks.

To him, deodorant is, simply put, overrated. I tell myself that this is just a phase, but on what I base this, I’m not sure. So all I have, really, is hope, hope that one day my son will be like us, us who feel basic personal hygiene is not necessarily an unnecessary social chore.

So he comes in and I walk away, going to find a seat on the couch, hoping to give him time to dilute his stench with the smells of the house. But he follows me. I know because I hear his bare feet slamming against the floor behind me, the days of a joyful and light pitter-patter now long gone.

I remember that I went barefoot, equally hating shoes when I was his age. Then, shoes were for school and other occasions for which one had to get all gussied up, a personal philosophy that left my feet toughened for many years to come, a personal philosophy that only changed after coming upon a nest of baby rattlesnakes in the woods. But even when I was barefoot, I wore deodorant. So again, I am hopeful, hopeful that this is just a phase, one that my son will pass through, perhaps without having to find those snakes.

Yet I’m not sure.

So he follows me to the couch.  And as I sit at one end, he begins his sprawl that starts at the other. His feet land in my lap.

“Get your hooves off me, man,” I exclaim, as I do my best to push his legs off the furniture, his feet off me. “They’re filthy and you stink.”

With a sigh indicating an impatient intelligence, he does his best to explain. “Lady, first off, they’re not hooves. They’re your little pumpkin’s feet. And second, they’re really not dirty. The dirt is only hiding the clean that is beneath.”

And now I remember that the dog always wags his tail, that the dog delights in getting us wet.