It’s 1am. I’m in my boxers, crouched in my living room, wiping-up a massive pile of diarrhea.
I lysol. I wipe. I lysol again.
The trash can fills. I get a strong whiff of the nast and shoot the dog a “fuck you and die” glare.
He cowers in the corner.
My dog’s illness only seems to manifest itself when I have an 8am class the next day. It started when Harley’s panting became too loud, so I put him in the kennel. He waited until I went back into the bedroom to start whining.
I shout for him to “suck it up!”’
He responds with a whimper, a poot, and a splatter.
And there I am cleaning up the haz-mat zone of the kennel. It feels like cleaning up a nuclear spill without the protective suit.
The next problem? I have to toss the trash bag and put Harley’s shit-caked kennel-mat in the washer, but I can’t find my keys. So I spend the next 20 minutes searching my apartment, avoiding the funk coming from the trash bag.
But of course the funk is unavoidable.
I briefly consider tying Harley to the door of the animal shelter with the poop-stained kennel-mat and a note that reads: “HELLS TO THE NAH!” but there is no practical way to transport the dripping kennel-mat and the dramatic effect is lost without it.
… I eventually realize that my keys are in the door. I toss the trash bag, and wash the kennel-mat, and upon my return to the apartment, I am amazed how less enraged I am now that the diarrhea smell is gone.
I woke up at 10am. Class started at 8am. And I don’t even have the satisfaction of an excuse since my classmates with screaming babies can make it on time.
Fuh.
The heartworms cause the Bubble Guts?
C’mon Jansen. Did you have to shoot the dog the ‘fuck you and die’ glare? lol…its not his fault..
Wow. Considering how badly I want a dog, and how amazingly awesome your dog seems, this was definitely a reality check. It’s akin (at least for me) to holding a baby, deciding I want to have one, and then smelling the nastiness awaiting in the kid’s diaper and quickly re-negotiating the need to have children (that and seeing the glazed-over sleep-deprived craziness that has swept over the parents).
Hopefully you and Harley have made up.
Haha. Exactly.
And although “I know it’s not his fault” – when I’m tired and cleaning up the nast it’s everyone’s fault. I blame the dog, the neighbor, Mariah Carey, etc. It doesn’t matter.
Oh, now, don’t blame Mariah! Miley maybe, but not Mariah
Miley is too young to blame for a few more years.
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