Small Victories

There are two things in particular that I love about dogs:

1) Every day is a bright and shiny new awesomeness. No matter what may have happened yesterday, a new morning is always happy and exciting. They do not understand ennui, and leave the kittens and I to suffer our existential angst without them.

2) They have–and thus force me to have–a very narrow definition of victory. For Karmann, victory is finally enticing Calvin to play for 15 seconds; for Calvin, victory is a walk in which he does not see another living thing. For both, victory is securing the green bed, because the green bed is the hotness.

Right now, for example, I am mightily victorious. I am celebratory and wild with achievement because it has been four hours since Calvin has had a bout of explosive liquipoo and that is twice as long as the interval that preceded it. Prepare the champagne!

I was awakened at 11:30 last night by an unsettling THRRRRRRRPPP-burble noise, immediately followed by a foul, paint-peeling fog of sulfurous horror. I didn’t immediately link the noise to the stench but it didn’t take me long, either, and it is a uniquely awful thing to lie in bed, warm and half asleep, and contemplate the propulsion of shit that will await you when you flick on the light.

But I put on my big girl pants and confronted it.

And I gagged–quietly! So as not to wake Schmoopie, who apparently turns his nose off when he goes to bed.

And then I laughed–quietly!–because despite the fact that I am the go-to human for late night potty emergencies, Calvin persists in his awestruck worship of Schmoop. This apparently led Cal to his side of the bed in search of assistance. But if the sound of poo being forcefully ejected from a dog, and it’s accompanying reek, cannot wake the Schmoop, then Cal’s notification system–stoicly standing and staring until you figure out he’s in distress, stood no chance. So the poop touched down about three feet from the slumbering Schmoopie.

The following ensued:

More gagging
A trip downstairs for cleaning supplies
The rustle of poop bags and garbage bags and paper towels as I picked up, wiped up, sprayed down, wiped again, and sanitized
Much spraying of various cleaning chemicals–wood floor cleaner, Lysol
Another trip downstairs for Febreeze
Copious Febreezing of wood floor
Decreasing concern about waking Schmoop because Christ on a cracker how is sleeping through this?!??
Another trip downstairs for Febreeze Air Effects
Loud sighing
Copious Febreezing of the air
Another trip downstairs to hermetically dispose of the waste (by putting it on the back balcony where it is freezing and could be forgotten about for an as yet to be determined period of time)
The sink-side equivalent of a Silkwood shower for me

By the time I returned to bed, the entire cleanup had lasted about 20 minutes and made the bedroom smell like a lemony-Pet Freshy-clean lineny sewer main.

And yet there Schmoop lay, blissfully unaware of the decontamination procedures that had taken place a mere meter from his head–where both his ears and nose are located–softly snoring and peaceful.

HOW DO YOU SLEEP THROUGH A POOSPLOSION AND THE SUFFOCATING APPLICATION OF SANITIZING AND DESTINKING SPRAYS??? My nose hairs were melting and running down my face and he looked like something off a box of Sleepytime tea.

And thus passed the remainder of our evening–with Schmoop sleeping, and me not sleeping even one little teeny minute on account I had to take Cal out every 45-90 minutes, all night, without fail, until 6am when we finally made it two hours. And now here we are approaching five hours and I’m very sincerely considering a small party or, barring that, a really epic nap because I am far, far too old to be pulling all-nighters.

Cal is mostly fine. At no point has he acted sick; I believe this is the part where I realize that his little gut can’t quite take multiple all-beef meals in a row. Poor Pookie.


One response

  1. Pingback: This is Why I Drink | furklempt.

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