Picked the dog up from the vet where he was boarded and groomed over Labor Day weekend. Now, I love our vet staff and their groomers do an amazing job. I am now realizing that a certain asshat of a dog loves them too, so much so that he’s making it painfully clear he’d rather live his life there than here and to be honest, I’m totally on board with his plan. In fact, I’ll drive him there right now, pajamas on and all.
Let me set the stage: Tyler and I picked him up last night. Came home, had dinner, fed the freakishly cute yet newly shaved dog, let him out, cleaned up the kitchen, took the trash out, let the gigantic dalmatian wannabe out again because hey, better safe than sorry is our mantra, and off to a peaceful slumber for all.
Occasionally the dog needs to go out in the middle of the night.
He wears a chain collar that is so damn annoying I wake up pissed off some mornings because I hear him all night long. That collar is also the indicator that he needs to go out. He is an expert at making so much noise with it that even the critters outside are pecking at the house and pounding on the door asking us to shut him the hell up.
He didn’t make a peep last night. Certainly it was because he was just so excited to be back in his house, with his people, with his bed, with a relaxed asshole…did I mention he was SILENT last night.
Queue Bruce getting up for work well before the sun is up. Bless his heart, he did what he could. He put the shit covered dog bed outside, attempted to clean up a spot or two, and shot me a text forewarning me of the situation downstairs.
This is a smell no one can ignore. I made it roughly two feet outside the bedroom door when I was hit with the pungent stank of a thousand freshly laid shit piles. Inside I was crying like a baby, fetal position, kicking, screaming, wailing fits and all. On the outside I sighed, cursed more than necessary, told the shit generator my true feelings of him at the moment and put him outside praying out loud that somehow he’d be hit and killed by traffic in the confines of my fenced in backyard.
I hauled the crap covered rug outside and set it next to the shit laden dog bed.
I stood by the back door and assessed the situation: this one calls for at least three rolls of paper towels, a bottle of carpet cleaner, the Spotbot, two trash bags, and a hell of a lot of air freshener. There was shit on the dog bed, shit on the rug, shit on the cowhide, shit from the back door down the hallway, through the living room, and into the sunroom where a shit fest awaited me. It was like a thousand tiny toddlers with diarrhea had a party in our house.
There is a silver lining in all of this: he missed shitting on the air intake vent by mere fractions of an inch. Thank you, thank you, thank you Jesus!!
This is why we will never own a Roomba.