Do not ask me how the dogs are doing today
Because I will fucking rage.
I’ve had two consecutive nights of sporadic sleep. The kind of sleep when you wake up on the hour every hour to Fitz snoring like a freight train or because Maeby moved in her crate.
Maeby, who is less than four months old, is deep in a crate training program. She is unable to have padding in her crate because she uses the blanket lining the bottom as a piss deposit. It just soaks into the cushion like Bounty paper towels. And while the quicker picker upper works its magic, she stays nice and dry.
The padding, however, serves as a nice buffer between her claws and the hard plastic of the bottom of the crate. Without the buffer, every time she adjusts a paw it sounds as if she’s engraving “Maeby was here” into her cell floor with a rusty nail. Or working on her own escape from Alcatraz one centimeter at a time.
Taking the dogs out back for one last potty break before I hit the road this morning, I step one foot off the porch into the grass and somehow into a nice big pile of dog shit. It was impressive. This pile was like Rambo — it just came out of nowhere. Like Fitz had been casing the area for weeks and found the perfect spot where the surrounding grass would camoflauge the pile like the Predator. And nosed a leaf over the spot for good measure.
It didn’t stop there. I had no reason to step on the lawn except to see what the hell Fitz was doing. He had disappeared around the porch railing and bushes and I wanted to make sure he wasn’t digging in the mulch — a new trick Maeby taught him. As soon as I took the step on the lawn and right onto the perfectly placed pooch pie wearing my dress shoes, he flew out from under the bushes and leaped up on the patio like some kind of victory lap. Like he was saying “Ta da!”
Luckily for me, the shit was only on the heel of my dress shoe, which had no indentations or ridges so the poop wiped off fairly easily in the grass. But I still had to walk on the ball of my foot just in case while I quickly got the house ready for exit.
Doors locked. TV off. Maeby in her crate. Couple toys. One treat. NO PADDING. Plastic bag for Fitz’ daycare things. Couple toys. Couple treats. Fitz in the car. Shit, forgot his ear medicine. Forgot to turn the alarm on too. Back in the house. Don’t forget the keys, you locked the garage door. Grab the medicine. Turn on the alarm. Lock the garage door again. Back in the car. Squirt the medicine into Fitz right ear. Rub it in. And we’re off.
Ahhhhh. OK, I was still on time.
Twelve minutes of slow news on NPR and I pulled into the daycare center. I grabbed Fitz bag of things as he jumped on my lap, excited to go inside. I reached over to unlock the door and Fitz’ VOMITED RIGHT ON MY LEFT LEG. And on the door. And a little on the carpet. ANGER FUMING. No paper towels. No napkins. Now I have to walk into the daycare with puke dripping down my leg and ask for a little help?
I found old Google Maps directions printed on a piece of paper and scooped the excess off my leg as best I could and headed inside. Somehow, nobody noticed or offerd me a towel. And I didn’t want to bring it up myself because then I’d have to explain that Fitz wasn’t actually sick and that sometimes dogs just vurp. I’d also have to say to a stranger “Hey look at this puke on my pants,” which was by that time deeply set in the cloth.
Instead, I decided the best plan of action was to let it fester on my leg for the last 10 minutes of commute to the office. A drive during which I realized the dog food chunks he evacuated were puppy food. Maeby’s food. Food he’s not supposed to be eating. But sneaks. Like a ninja.
