August 10, 2007
I Am Too Pissed Off To Sleep
Stella, having had the run of the house for a couple months, is now back to being in her cage while we're out. She can't be trusted to not gnaw on the home we generously let her live in, so that's the way it has to be.
She is, however, allowed to sleep in our room at night, unfettered. Until now, that is.
At 2:00 this morning, Husband and I were roused by the scent of fresh shit. (God, this story has a familiar ring.) Turned out to be a puddle of runny poo at the foot of our bed. On the rug. Bitch didn't even try to make it to the back door or anything. She just rolled outta bed and squatted, which is how we know it was Stella. When it comes to poo, Daisy always does it by one of the doors.
Isn't it sad that it has happened so often, we've noticed a trend?
So there we stood, hands on hips, surveying the damage, our muddled, sleepy minds fully comprehending the crappiness of the situation but having no idea what to do about it.
It was finally decided that we would just roll up the rug and haul it to the curb, even tho' garbage day isn't until Tuesday. No, no, no. We can't just pitch it. Let's at least try to hose it off.
We both put on some pants and rolled up the bedroom rug, being sure to cover the ass-juice with plastic, so as not to smoosh it into the rest of the carpet. It was at this point that I noticed the 2" by 4" section of woodwork behind the bedroom door that had paint missing from it.
Fucking puppy.
No doubt, she had done it one night when Husband was snoring and I was wearing earplugs, so neither of us heard.
My puppy eats paint chips.
IS ANYONE SURPRISED???
Stella will now be back in her cage at night, as well as when we're out. She turns 10 months on Aug. 23. Perhaps when she's a year old, we'll try trusting her again. In the meantime, I think it's enough that we didn't simply kill her.
The turn from the kitchen through the mudroom out the back door was too sharp, so we carried the rug out the front door and around the house to the back yard.
I was bringing up the rear, and Husband is whisper-yelling, "Don't let the screen door slam behind you!"
"Why."
"The neighbors!"
I'm out there, in my pajamas and bare feet, carrying a turd-laden rug at two in the morning, and he thinks I give a rat's ass about disturbing the neighbors? Riiiiiiiiiiiight. None of them are stupid enough to have the windows open anyway, considering the 1000% humidity. Everyone has their A/C on.
Thanks to Husband's superior hosing skills, the poop actually came off the rug pretty quickly. Of course, then there was the even-heavier, sopping wet rug to contend with. So I moved my car, put my keys on the fence post where I'd remember them (that's called "foreshadowing," boys and girls), and we draped the rug over a couple work horses in the garage, where it will need to stay for the next several days.
Bleary-eyed and weary, and more than a little snippy with each other, we turned off all the lights, put Stella in her cage and fell back into bed. But the scent of crap was over-whelming. Not wanting to open our windows to the moist night air, we cleverly lit a pumpkin pie-scented candle. Yeah, that worked wonders. Pumpkin poop.
I laid in bed, too angry to sleep, thinking about the day I have ahead of me. I have to get up at 5:45 to be at work by 7:30. Goes without saying that I will be stopping at Starbuck's on the way. Get off work at 12:30, and I have to be waiting at my front door, costumes in hand, by 1:45, when Bro-In-Law (not Brad, the other one) will be picking me up for our bottle-playing gig at Navy Pier for 1,800 Lutherans.
Of course, we don't actually start playing until 8:00 tonight, but we have to schlep all the bottles and props and tables, then set-up, then do a soundcheck, then reherse, then have dinner, then wait around for our introduction. Hopefully, the audience will be good and drunk by then.
But wait. There's more.
Just when I had managed to slow my heart rate a little, we heard Daisy puking.
Now, Daisy's chronic bladder infections have finally been diagnosed as bladder crystals. Apparently, she's part cat. So we were wearning her onto her new, fancy, expensive, prescription dog food to take care of the crystals when she got some kind of stomach virus and hurled on the living room carpet four times in two days. Always in the middle of the night, naturally.
She was on a chicken and rice diet for a few days, until the virus cleared up. Then we started her back on a mix of half her usual food, half the new food. She was fine with that, so this afternoon, I switched it to a ratio of 2-to-1.
I'm guessing, by the pile of undigested food on our carpet, that it wasn't a virus at all. Daisy is just having trouble keeping down the new food.
Greeeeeeeaaaaaaaaat.
She'll be going back on her normal food come breakfast.
And why the hell is it always the living room carpet? To get from our bedroom to the living room, she has to walk through the uncarpeted hallway and through the entire linoleumed kitchen. And God forbid she ralph on the large uncarpeted section of the living room, where once the rug runner had lived, until it got pooped and puked on too many times, and we just threw the damn thing out instead of taking it to the cleaners for the ninth time. That's right -- I said ninth.
Husband is all, "We should just throw this rug out."
I know he was speaking in anger. The anger of a man who had to clean up TWO different toxic bodily secretions in one night and knows he won't get a nap in that day. But I don't think that's such a bad idea. I want to just get rid of ALL the rugs and do the entire first floor in slate.
I'm only half kidding.
Back in bed, trying to lower my blood pressure through zen-like concentration, I hear Husband mutter, "Did we close the garage door?"
*sigh* "I'll check while I get my keys from the fence."
Thank God he remembered about the garage, or I never would have remembered about my keys. And I never would have had the chance to walk around the front of my house in my panties.
I told Husband, after one of the two dogs dies, we're never having two dogs at once again. What a stupid idea. I can't take twice as much trouble, those stinking, tag-teaming bitches.
And I'm not at all kidding.
Comments
This is why I'm a cat person. Well, one of the reasons.
Posted by: Uncle Twitchy at August 10, 2007 06:53 AM
I can so relate . . . it's always in the middle of the night, whether it's puke or poo. And God Forbid you don't smell it or see it, and make it worse by stepping in it *shudder*. If they made a sympathy card for this, I'd send it to you.
Posted by: Margy at August 10, 2007 07:23 AM
this is why we don't have kids in our house. or animals. or drunken uncles. all the poop and vomit is just...unnecessary. we have enough of our own, thanks!
Posted by: heather at August 10, 2007 12:21 PM
Holy pukin' crap! No wonder Husband was curled up in a fetal position napping on the floor before the gig last night!
Big dawgs make big poops and barfs. I have always had cats. One cat in particular had stomach issues. Problem was instead of having one nice puke, he had a series of little puddles all over the house. So it was like a game he made up for me ... puke and seek. Yech!
Posted by: Snippy Bitch at August 11, 2007 07:16 AM