The back door swings in now and stops about an inch short of the new bench. That inch cost Caleb most of a Saturday afternoon and an extra trip down to the basement saw, and I'll get to why. First, the before picture, because I don't think anyone who has visited us has ever seen our back entry without a pile in it.
Our mudroom is generous with the word "room." It's a narrow strip between the kitchen and the back door, maybe four and a half feet wide, with one hook by the door, a couple of nails somebody pounded into the plaster decades ago and a linoleum floor that has seen things. Since we moved in three years ago it has held two pairs of Caleb's work boots, my barn boots, Hank's leash, his backup leash, the long line for the river, a laundry basket of towels, the boot tray from the paw-washing station I wrote about in March and, most nights, Hank himself, who sleeps against the back door like a draft stopper with opinions.
Nothing had a place. Leashes lived on the doorknob. Towels lived wherever they landed. Every time I came in with muddy boots I stood on one foot on the kitchen threshold, fighting my laces while Hank tried to help.
What Caleb built
Caleb doesn't draw plans so much as measure things twice and stare at them. The weekend after we got back from his cousin's wedding in Duluth, he stared at the mudroom for a good ten minutes, said "yeah, okay," and drove to the lumber yard.
The bench is 44 inches long and 15 inches deep, built from pine boards, with a lower shelf about five inches off the floor for boots. Above it, screwed into the studs (he found them with a magnet by tracking the old lath nails, which was oddly satisfying to watch), is a back board with six double hooks. A narrow shelf along the top holds gloves, poop bags and the flashlight we grab for dark walks. He stained the whole thing a warm honey color to roughly match the oak in the kitchen, then wiped on two coats of poly, because anything in that room is going to get wet.
Here's where the $132 went:
- Pine boards and a length of 1x4 for the back board: $79
- Six black double hooks from Fleet Farm: $31
- A small can of stain and a can of wipe-on poly: $22
Screws, glue and sandpaper came out of his stash on the workbench. I counted the bench as a pet expense anyway. It exists because of the dog.
The inch, and the hooks
The honest mistake: Caleb measured the wall, not the door swing. On the first dry fit the bench sat right where the back door opens, and the door hit the end of it with a hollow thunk. He carried it back downstairs and cut three inches off, which is why it's 44 inches and not the 47 he planned. It also means the boot shelf fits two pairs instead of three, so my barn boots stay on the tray by the door. Fair trade.
The second thing we got wrong was hook height. Caleb hung the hooks at his height, which is not my height and definitely not the height a wet towel needs to hang without dripping onto the seat. We moved two of them lower and to the far end, right over the boot tray, so towels drip onto rubber instead of fresh stain. The leash hooks stayed high on purpose. Hank is food-motivated, not leash-motivated, but he has pulled a leash off a doorknob before when he decided it was time to go.
Right now the hooks hold, left to right: Hank's everyday leash and harness, the long line, Caleb's work jacket, my flannel and two towels. One towel is the "first wipe" for paws. The other is the good towel for his back and belly after the river. Keeping them separate sounds fussy. It saves us a load of laundry a week.
How it's working with a dog
Three things changed right away. I sit down to take off my boots, which my knees appreciate. Leashes are where my hand expects them, so walks start faster and with less of Hank's grumbling at the door while I hunt around. And the towels dry between uses instead of sitting in a damp heap, which has done more for the wet-dog smell in that little room than any candle could.
Hank has decided the space under the boot shelf belongs to him. He can't fit under it, but he sleeps with his nose shoved into the gap between Caleb's boots, so I suppose that counts. Mabel supervised the build from the kitchen doorway, came out once to inspect the sawdust and hasn't set foot in the mudroom since. She considers it dog territory, and a bench changes nothing.
Before the leaves come in
We have a few weeks before the maple drops everything and the wet leaves start arriving on four paws. Before then I want a small basket on the top shelf for the tick comb, a lint roller and the treat pouch, and Caleb wants to give the seat one more coat once it's taken a beating. The boot tray gets its fall scrub. And I'm going to stop hanging my purse on the leash hook, because twice now I've grabbed it on the way to the car and walked out holding the long line.
