I lazily decided to leave the dog out of her crate last night. I had personally witnessed a huge poop session out in the yard an hour or so before going to bed; so, I thought, how much poop can one puppy make? She's been doing good about not messing in her room. I'm safe. Big mistake. Huge mistake. MONUMENTAL mistake, and let me emphasize the MENTAL part because that's what I must have been when I made that decision. In hindsight, of course, I was being truly stupid because I had forgotten about her escapade earlier in the day.
I had let her out to, yes, go poop, and left her loose. (Hey, I'm PMSing. It must be the stupid hormone raging through my system right now, whichever one that might be.) I was keeping a relatively close eye on her. One second in the yard, next second not. I started yelling for her. (Here's where those obedience lessons pay off.) Repeatedly. Finally, she comes with one of those maniacal I-just-found-something-awesome! dog looks on her face, with a string of saliva encircling her snout. I bring her in the house to praise her profusely for coming on the 20th call, and I get this whiff that only one word can perfectly describe. Putrid. I declare she needs to be bathed immediately, which, of course, even though I'm working (you know the you're-working-but-you're-not-really-working-because-you-work-from-home! clause) this task falls to me. Never mind she has just left a cloud of putridness in her wake in the kitchen and it is following her "Pigpen"-like everywhere she goes in the house. No, I'm the one that ultimately wanted the dog, so all these lovely dog tasks fall to me. Dave is the first, of course, to pronounce her a "GREAT DOG," though, when I start fantasizing about a dog-free home. He irritatingly does the same about our child. Whatever.
Now, to be fair, Dave was willing to bathe her. However, first he was going to lock her up in her room with all her bedding and toys for an indeterminate amount of time to "season," evidently, in true procrastinator fashion. (Okay, he was tired from getting home from work at midnight, but still...)
So with the knowledge that our sweet, sweet puppy ate an indeterminate amount of an "unaccustomed diet," I'm thinking after a 10-minute long poop session in the yard that she's pooped out for the night and safe to uncrate??? Yeah. Damn hormones.
Fast forward to this morning, getting ready to microwave my coffee at 7. The microwave is in "her" room. This itself speaks volumes about us as people--that we live in a house with 3 bedrooms, one of which is the dog's.
Now, when I walk into the room, even before I turn on the lights, it's the smell that hits me first; however, I still put my coffee in the microwave and start it. Hey, whatever it is, I'm sure I'm going to need the coffee. I flip on the lights, and there IT is in all its glory, with the perpetrator guiltily looking out from her crate. Oh, now you're in your crate.
Oh the horror! The humanity! The shit on my slippers. Excrement everywhere. It looked like a monkeys' cage. It's like during the night she sat there thinking (and I hear this with an English accent for some reason), "Hmmm. What special surprise can I cook up for Mummy tonight? What lovely display could I put on for her to wake up to? I'm thinking a lovely poop pastoral. A symphony of shit, only for the eyes and nose! A fecal Fantasia! Let's see, I'll use my tail for a brush and start poop painting!"
Now, I know from all the puppy books I've read that dogs never really do these things on purpose. That I'm sure she felt just as bad about it as I did. Yeah. Right. I think I saw a smirk on her little fluffy face as my body was convulsing, gagging back vomit. Let's see how Animal World/National Geographic/Jane Goodall you're feeling when YOU wake up to that. I'm sure if the gorillas had left a little surprise poop party in Jane's tent, she wouldn't have been feeling too generous with the bananas.
I should have taken Vaughn up on trading the dog in for a hermit crab. *sigh* Hey, maybe he's still interested!
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