I get out of bed and Herbie is nowhere to be found. Older puppy, WHO DOES NOT POTTY IN THE HOUSE, Franklin, is sleeping under our bed. I walk out in the hall and almost fall over as the strong stench of poo invades my nostrils. I started looking–and walking very slowly–mostly because I can’t see anything without my glasses. I was walking like one would walk if there were loose tacks all over the floor. I crept through the hall, turned on the light, and kept going. Herbie was sleeping on the couch on the living room. But the smell was still alive and well as I crept past the living room and into the kitchen. I went out to the breezeway, where the stench was overpowering and was certain I’d find the poo pile in there, but when I finally managed to turn on the light (which is really freaking complicated, but I’ll save that tale for another time), there was no poop to be found. But it sure smelled like it. At this point, Herbie padded into the room and decided he needed to go outside, so I made sure I gave him a good glare before letting him out the door. Herbie’s always the culprit for most bad things that happen around here, so I knew the glare wouldn’t be lost on him.
Resuming the tack-walk, I returned to the kitchen and into the poo haze…and noticed dark spots on the carpet in the dining room. I don’t know why I didn’t just look there in the first place. I bent over real close to the spot–why? Because I didn’t have my glasses on, and I like to give doggy the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps, I thought, it is just a horrific fart. But no, that dark spot, upon way too close of a visual inspection, was definitely NOT a fart.
Commence scrubbing and swearing. Lots of the latter. Why didn’t that little jerk wake me up and let me know he was going to explode ALL OVER THE DINING ROOM??? Though, revisiting my most recent experience with the flu, I suppose one does not always know when there will be an explosion. At some point during the scrubbing, I realized I didn’t have glasses on and returned to the bedroom to get them. Upon returning to the disaster scene, to my delight, I found that there were two LARGE poo puddles AND two OTHER unidentified puddle. More scrubbing. A load of laundry. Lit candles. Room spray. Lots of room spray. More scrubbing.
I used all of the carpet cleaner we had. Let me tell you something about carpet cleaner: it ought to be able to be tested out at the store. Why? Because the special pet stain carpet cleaner bottle we bought DOESN’T SPRAY UNLESS IT IS STANDING UP STRAIGHT. Now, how the heck is one supposed to clean carpet with a spray bottle that can’t be tipped to the side? Oh sure, it would work if it was full, but it wasn’t since, lately, we’ve been having vomiting marathons.
So, at around 2:30 AM after using approximately half a roll of paper towels for collection…I finally got to the point where I needed to use the cleaner. And I found myself wishing I had depth perception that would allow me to aim enough to hit a target. Of course, the mess was so big, it shouldn’t have been all that difficult to hit the target.
But, per the usual course of my life, the spraying of the carpet went like this:
In the end, I returned to bed at 3:00 AM to wake up every five minutes when Herbie moved, fearing another Poosplosion. And when it was time to wake up for work at 7, I pushed snooze a billion times, then had no time to make lunch or eat breakfast, got stuck in rush hour traffic (but somehow managed to score a parking spot in my usual lot), and then managed to trip over my own shoe on the sidewalk on the way in.
But will all this matter when I’m dead?