Normally I pride myself on being a person who can unquestionably hold it together and perform, nay exceed under pressure. When the going gets tough, the tough call Jen!
Today, I completely lost my shit (figuratively), because the dog lost hers (literally).
I left work a smidge early today to go home and put together some final notes on a bit of market research I was going through for a client (reading and summarizing research is always best done on a comfy couch as far as I’m concerned), and was feeling pretty pleased with myself, and already half-writing the notes in my head as I walked up to the building.
When I opened the apartment door, I noticed instantly that something was Not. Right.
I looked in and didn’t see anything straight away, so I ventured in a bit further to see what exactly had gone on in my 8 hour absence. I made it to the kitchen.
Three full quarters of the surface of the 20 square feet of laminate that occupies the centre of the horseshoe that is our kitchen was COVERED in liquids of various colours and consistencies. The orifice they came out of was still up in the air.
Cursing the mess, but secretly smiling about the fact that, hey, at least it’s not on the carpet(!), I glanced over at the sliding door to the patio. Uh oh. Danger Will Robinson… There are some brownish drops and smears by the door. More dog mess? I wandered over to check it out.
Out of the corner of my eye
I saw it.
THE GIGANTIC PILES OF SHIT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE (FULLY CARPETED) OFFICE FLOOR!!!
Ok, in all fairness, there was one gigantic pile of shit, and three lesser piles surrounding it.
And this was no ordinary shit. This dog had clearly gone for the extra grease, extra cheese, extra beans, extra extra hot sauce superdeluxe chalupah, and my carpet paid the price.
I was stunned. Dazed, I turned back to look at the door from whence I’d entered this, the 4th circle of hell that had replaced my home, and saw it. The other puddle of shit on the tile at the front door, that I’d stepped in on my way inside.
And then I lost it.
I picked up my phone and called Neil; as soon as he answered I just yelled “OH MY GOD THE DOG DIAHRREA’D ALL OVER THE APARTMENT!” To which he replied “So I guess I should come home?” To which I replied “OH MY GOD I CAN’T HANDLE THIS!” And promptly hung up.
I grabbed my purse, and the dog, and my keys, and just left.
I managed to make it down to the coffee place at the end of the block, tied the dog to a table outside, ordered a cappucino, and just waited for Neil to make it home (I did think to call at some point and let him know that I was in a place other than the befouled apartment).
To make an already long story a little shorter and spare you the grosest details, it took three hours, three kitchen catchers, one roll of paper towel, two dishclothes, a can of Spot Shot, a Rug Doctor rental, a method air pill and scented candle, Chinese food dinner OUT, three beer and two larger-than-is-decent-in-polite-company glasses of scotch, and we’re finally feeling better (if not ok) about the experience.
And now that I’ve made it to the other side, I can say that maybe, perhaps, there is a tiny inkling of indication that there is hope for me yet to be a parent of small children and actually enjoy it.
Because even with the experience she put me through, I can say with conviction that even if she were to do this again, I would still prefer that the dastardly hound spend her time at the end of my bed, rather than the end of my fork.