Puddles Of Poop Under Pup
DISCLAIMER: Dearest, loveliest readers: this post may not be for the faint of heart or stomach. You have been warned.
Lance here. Yes, the Lance of “the Lance and Jeff blog” fame. I have a story I need to share with you. It’s a tale that may break your heart and churn your stomach. Kind of like Showgirls 2: Penny’s From Heaven (another day, I promise).
My story begins on a typical Thursday afternoon. I usually have the pleasure of beating Jeffrey home from work by about two hours. You know, Septa, biking, a work schedule that is, well, not as good as mine. It all adds up to about an extra two hours for him. On this typical Thursday, I come home, open the door and smell something… off. Just not right.
Naturally, my first thought was – DANG IT! My Wallflower Home Fragrance Diffuser Units have malfunctioned! To B&BW immediately! Also naturally, my second thought was that my downstairs neighbor was again cooking some kind of very stinky dinner. Was that broccoli? Brussels sprouts? Chicken beaks?
I moseyed on upstairs, the day’s mail in hand, fatso Kitty at my feet just begging for me to step on her. Which I did. No, just kidding, I didn’t. Well, maybe kinda sorta a little bit…
I dropped the mail on the counter, drop-kicked the cat and went in to see Ripley (“the magical dog”)…
HORROR. Now THIS was the true American Horror Story.
(Let me preface the juicy part of the story with this nugget of truth: when I saw what I saw, my first thought was to calmly, slowly and quietly (as if someone was listening) back away, back down the stairs, get back into my car, and drive to Target or Starbucks or even CHURCH for that matter. That’s how bad it was.)
Ripley the Magical Dog had soiled his “house.” No – absolutely not, that is too proper – Ripley the Magical Dog and dropped a diarrhetic dung heap in his dungeon. It oozed, it squished, it steamed, it stank worse than Jeff’s breath in the mornings. Ripley had become the creature from the black lagoon – and that black lagoon was made of bubbling, festering POOP. He was covered in splotches of it – tail, legs, paws, ears, teeth (?!).
His face, though. Let me back up for a second and say that when Jeff and I first brought Ripley home, I looked at him and said “That face is going to get you out of a lot of trouble.” I mean – have you SEEN him? He’s the cutest dog/mammal/living thing on the planet – most likely in the universe (I choose to believe that beings from outer space could not possibly be cuter than my Ripley.)
While I was staring in terror at the decimation of his cage (I once over heard in a public bathroom one dude say to another dude: “Yo, man, I’m about to decimate this place!” – true story) that face looked up at me. At that moment, my poor, pathetic, poop covered pup became an instant thing of legend. Who knew a little poop could make me love him infinitely more? Suddenly, the paternal (maternal?) instinct kicked in – I valiantly rushed to his cage, valiantly threw open the door, valiantly picked him up, and valiantly rushed him outside. Valiantly.
I like to think I saved the day that “typical” Thursday. I rescued my baby from his den of feces, with only minimal squealing and squawking. I called Jeff (who, remember was still working – HA! Sucks to be you, Jeff!) with a more or less calm demeanour (calm for me is everyone else’s @&*#%#(@@&@), and I somehow managed to carry the poopy doggie bed to the balcony.
I lit a few dozen candles, sprayed a couple room sprays – Island Margarita and Marshmallow Fireside, not a good combo – and opened the windows. I locked the poopy dog in the bathroom until (sucker) Daddy 2 came home to give him a bath, and sat down on a fluorescent orange chair with bowl of coffee ice cream and thought, “Wow, I’m a good dad.” [Meanwhile Ripley was whimpering in the bathroom, Kitty hadn't been fed, and I hadn't even thought about starting dinner for my late-working husband.]