We recently adopted quite possibly the most adorable puppy ever. On doggy death row because of several birth defects, Scooter has a difficult time walking straight and frequently stumbles around like a drunk. (No comparisons to me, thankyouverymuch.) But he’s a total sweetie, not in any pain, and a lovely companion.
Scooter keeps me company in the dining room where I write in a makeshift office space at the table. But the slippery wood floors are a bit tough for him to walk on. When he’s not on the area rug under the table, he often falls on his face. And his butt. And all over the place. (Again, no need for comparisons to yours truly.)
Anyhow, I decided to move my office downstairs to the basement, which is carpeted. The carpeting would make it easier for him to get around and to wrestle with our other dog, which would be great physical therapy.
So I gathered up my supplies from the dining room and brought the first load downstairs. I threw away moved my children’s art supplies from the desk-turned-craft-table, reclaimed it as my own, and started setting up my new writing station when I heard my husband’s frantic voice booming from upstairs, “YOU BETTER STAY OUT OF THE KITCHEN!”
I had just been in the kitchen, and everything seemed okay. I shouted up, “Why?”
His panic increased. “THERE’S DOG SHIT EVERYWHERE!”
“Well, fuck. I’m glad I’m downstairs,” I muttered to myself. I figured I’d just stay down in the basement and let my husband deal with the mess. Having a new puppy was hard work, and his accidents didn’t always have to fall on my shoulders. I chuckled at my husband and continued moving things around the basement.
After a few minutes, he shouted down the stairs, “Is there poop on your shoes?”
“Of course not,” I incredulously replied while examining my left slipper. And then I lifted my right one. “Oh shit.” Poop. Lots of poop. A huge blob of poop. More like the smashed remains of what used to be a huge poop, squished in the sole of my slipper. (Remember, I have no sense of smell so my nose didn’t detect it.)
I removed my fouled footwear and headed back to my husband following a terrible trail of shite stains all the way across the basement floor, up the stairs, down the hall, and into the kitchen.
He regarded me with disgust. “The poo prints go out to the dining room.”
“Fortunately it was only on one slipper?” I sheepishly offered my glass-half-full point-of-view. That did nothing to appease him.
Despite our different perspectives on the issue, we worked together. I started on the splotches on the kitchen floor. My husband followed the trail of tears and excrement out into the dining room and looked for the source. He found a large pile of crap under the dining room table, cleverly camouflaged on our dark, multi-colored area rug.
He returned with a steaming bag and squinted at me. “So…exactly where did you walk?”
I lowered my head. “Well…I went from there through the kitchen and then downstairs.” My voice lowered to a whisper. “And then I walked all around the basement putting things away.”
We spent the next hour following the poop prints and scrubbing carpet (thank god for our gallon-sized jugs of Nature’s Miracle). Profanity may have been uttered. Loudly. And repeatedly. (Don’t worry. I totally followed the Rules of Swearing.)
After we finished, I dipped my hands in acid, retrieved some flip-flops, and proceeded to move more of my office out of the dining room, through the kitchen, and down to the basement.
When my shoe slid ever so slightly on one of the basement steps, I growled and turned back to see another walk of waste. Turning over my foot, I found more squished fecal matter on the bottom of my shoe.
“FUCK! More poop,” I spat up the stairs to my incompetent-cleaner-of-a-husband. “I stepped in MORE POOP.”
He was defensive. “But I cleaned it all up!”
“Apparently not.” I was annoyed. (But I was more relieved that I wasn’t the only poopetrator anymore.)
My husband and I went back into hazmat fecal fumigation. I tossed my flip-flops out the door (they landed right next to my shitty slippers) and scoured the kitchen floor while he searched the multi-colored rug (with a flashlight this time) for the second source.
As I finished decontaminating, my husband hollered from the dining room, “Eureka! I found it. It was disguised very well, dammit.” He cleaned up the second, somewhat smaller pile of poop, and we went about our evening.
At this point, out of (easy-to-slip-on) shoes, I walked barefoot around the house. I returned to the dining room one last time to retrieve my remaining items to bring downstairs.
“FUCKING HELL. I STEPPED IN MORE SHIT.”
My husband ran into the room looking like he’d just been punked. “No, you didn’t. I cleaned up both piles. BOTH PILES.”
So I lifted my foot up in front of his face and showed him.
“Oh. God. On your bare foot,” he started to laugh hysterically at my misfortune.
I squatted down, found the final source, then hopped on one foot to the bathtub to remove the remnants.
Anyhow, now I want to burn the entire house down. Starting with that fucking poop-camouflaging, shitty, awful, no-good, horrible multi-colored rug.