The first thing I remember Sunday morning is the sound of my little girl telling me to wake up because the dog had pooped on the floor. My wife was at work. It was up to me to handle it, but I slept in anyway.
I don't know how much longer I snoozed, but I jumped right out of bed when I heard one of the boys say something about there being a lot of poo upstairs.
They were right.
As luck would have it, there was a tremendous pile in the upstairs living room, and a couple of hershey's kiss sized turds on the family room carpet downstairs.
After surveying the damage, I sent a text to my wife:
The dog crapped all over the house
Did you barf?
To which I responded:
No, but there's a staggering payload in the living room
Throughout this ordeal I kept thinking of the Homer Simpson quote I've cited here before: "Animals are crapping in our houses and we're picking it up! Did we lose a war? This isn't America. This isn't even Mexico!"
What has become of my self-respect? I'm about one step away from being the guy who follows his dog around with a plastic bag over his hand, waiting for the bestowal of a juicy gift to collect. Is there anything more pathetic? If I ever do that, you have my permission to kick me square in the crotch.
You may be wondering why the first thing my wife did was ask me if I threw up. The truth is, I have a very sensitive gag reflex. She knows this only too well. With her stuck at work for 12 hours, it was my job to get the kids dressed, fed and off to church. I imagine she was afraid that with crap all over the house and me incapacitated by dry heaves, I might have a little difficulty with the tasks at hand.
Precedent sides with her on this. About a month ago all of us were unexpectedly gone from early morning to late evening. I was stuck at work and she and the kids were someplace else. I had the dubious honor of being the first one home. As I opened the door I steeled myself for the mess I was sure I'd find. After all, nobody had let the dog out all day.
At first glance I was relieved. I thought the kitchen floor would be a linoleum-lined piss pond, but actually there was only a small puddle of the warm, foamy stink-syrup our dog calls urine. I wiped up this pleasant surprise with hardly a twitch. But then I went to check the basement.
Right smack in the middle of the middle stair was a doggy-doo double-wraparound. It began as a typical dry, easy-to-clean turd, but each turn was a turn for the worse and the tail end was drippy and runny. I dry heaved and ran upstairs to get cleaning supplies. In the bathroom mirror I did my best to psych myself up. It's just poo, it's just poo. . .
But as soon as I laid eyes on it again the battle was lost, as was my lunch, all over the stairs.