Poop

The last 24 hours have been poop-tastic.

I am aware that adding “tastic” to the end of this word implies that I’m done being grumpy about the situation and have essentially moved on.

Rest assured, this is not the case.

A friend of mine spent the night on Monday night. Because we like to be somewhat gracious hosts, we did not make her sleep on the floor. Instead, we plopped a twin mattress in one of the two spare bedrooms that we have at our disposal, otherwise known as the junk room and the cats’ room. We put her in the junk room, because we assumed she didn’t want to sleep with her nose mere inches from a litter box.

Because we’re considerate like that.

But I forgot that Milo, in his weird and twisted logic, had long-ago decided that since going to the bathroom on the floor is wrong, then going to the bathroom on things that are on the floor is – somehow – less wrong (RIP Jericho’s dog bed and my slippers).

Essentially, Milo went out of his way to poop on this mattress. Luckily, my friend wasn’t in it at the time, but still…that’s entirely inappropriate.

That was last night.

This morning, after Brian had gone to work and Milo had been kicked out of the bedroom for doing his flip flop kick thing, I woke up to another pile of poop. At least this one was on the floor by the front door, but at 7:30 in the morning, that small blessing was somehow lost on me.

After screaming at Milo and threatening to sell him to the first tribe of gypsies that passes by (what, you don’t get gypsy tribes passing through?), the dogs that had decided to *not* shit on the floor had to go out. Yes, dogS. We’re watching Brian’s parent’s beagle while they’re up in Vermont for the week. Bandit-the-beagle is a pain in the ass for many, many reasons. One of those reasons is that he needs to be put on a leash when he’s outside. Brian swears he’s pretty good off of a leash, but I’m not trying to be put in that awkward situation where one is forced to explain to one’s future In-Laws how their beloved dog got pancaked on Route 70.

So out we go, Bandit towing me along while he sniffs out an appropriate place to take a dump.

Unbeknownst to me, Bandit tows me through a pile of dog doo.

I finally figured it out, but that was after I had come inside and tracked dog shit into practically every room in the house.

Realizing this shit-tastrophy, I took off my shoes only to see that the shit kind of squelched up the instep of one. My shoe, being made of some sort of suede/microfiber material, appears to be ruined.

I really, really loved those shoes.

So, my favorite pair of shoes are ruined and there’s dog poop everywhere and I was supposed to leave for work 5 minutes ago.

And then I can’t find the paper towels, because they were removed from their holder last night to clean up poop incident #1. For a moment I thought that we were actually out of paper towels, and I was this close to going on a murder-suicide spree that would include one dog of unknown breeding and yours truly.

[Note: at this point, I might actually be crying a little bit. Hormones are a wonderful thing]

Paper towels in hand, glancing frantically at the clock, I start cleaning the poop trail (which will henceforth be referred to as The Trail of Tears). In my haste to clean up the poop, it gets all over my hands and even under my nails.

I am not a person to be grossed out easily, but seriously? GROSS GROSS GROSS!!!

So that was my morning.
It’s a miracle I’m even at work, because I was considering spending the rest of the day in my underwear pounding bottles of cheap wine and watching the Lifetime Network.

But where Milo is, poop will follow, so I guess I’m glad I decided to come to work after all.

It may be a monotonous, depressing environment, but as far as I can tell, work is a DOG SHIT-FREE ZONE.

Now BULL SHIT...that's a whole different story.