Yesterday, the same day as The Epic Tire Change, I got home to find that my big dog detonated a butt-bomb. Yes, there had actually been an ass-splosion. It was a big pain in the… yeah, ok, I’ll stop now. The massive potential for puns with this situation was all that kept me from losing my recently-acquired dinner at the time, though, so it’s all still on my mind.
Sam appears to have a stomach bug, since I’m pretty sure she didn’t get hold of any strange food (we don’t feed her table scraps, and we guard against trash can raids like she was eating money instead of garbage). But, the night before she’d been a bit….loose…so yesterday morning, when I left for work, I penned both her and Nell up in the office (which is small enough to serve effectively as a XXXXL dog crate) to encourage her not to litterbox the living room carpet. This both worked and it didn’t.
There obviously was no damage to the living room carpet, but I guess she finally cramped enough while in the office. And OH BOY. Our house smelled like an underground sewage pipe. The floor of the office itself was a biohazard. I really wished I had some “QUARANTINE” tape to post across the door for theatrical effect when Clayton got home to find out for himself.
And I walk in from work—in a rush b/c I was running late and had about 10 min. to let them out, get dressed, and get to a riding lesson—and see not only The Biohazard, but also the two crap-covered dogs that look like they’d been mud-wrestling, happily yodeling and wagging and wriggling to greet me like nothing was wrong. Well, except for Sam–besides being happy to see me, she alternated between “omg-you’re-home-it’s-like-you-were-gone-for-days!” and “I am SO SORRY I couldn’t hold it” faces. Which really made me feel bad for her, b/c she obviously couldn’t help it. For reference, Exhibit A: her pathetic sorry face (from a previous transgression):
Nell, on the other hand, had this smug smile on her face (and you people with multiple pets or kids know exactly which smile I’m talking about): the one that says “someone’s about to get in trouble for pooping on the carpet and IT WASN’T ME! I get to watch an ass whoopin’!” So I stashed them upstairs in the master bathroom (with tile for easy cleanup in case it happened again) with one of the big dog beds (with removable cover in case of contamination), popped an Immodium tablet down Sam’s throat, and bolted for the barn.
When I got back to clean up/survey the damage later that night, I’ll be honest and say that while it was absolutely disgusting, I was also kinda impressed. Sam, apparently, was totally going for distance—the majority of the carpet was covered (and where there wasn’t a MESS-mess, there were little poop paw prints tracking everywhere), as were books (both on the floor and in the lower shelves of the bookcases), and parts of the wall….THE FREAKIN’ WALL!
And the whole time I’m looking around at it, slack-jawed and not even to the point yet where I can process how I’m even going to begin cleaning it up, this one clip from the move “Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy” kept running on repeat through my head:
*as Ron’s talking to his dog, Baxter* “What? You pooped in the refrigerator? And you ate the whole… wheel of cheese? How’d you do that?! Heck, I’m not even mad…that’s amazing!”
And I was like, “yep, that’s AMAZING.” I really did not know there was such a thing as projectile diarrhea. Looks like you learn new things every day. Sam’s new nickname is now “Pooper.”
With this event being on the tail-end of a series of vet visits/pet medications both this week and the week to come, I’d say I realized another lesson, too. You know the saying “Trouble comes in threes”? My version of it is more like, “Trouble comes in the thousands,” as in, dollars. (Every once in a while, we get one hellish week where all the pets break and it totals a grand or more. Once we even had a freak event where that amount racked up in one WEEKEND, so at least this grand is spread out over several days this time.) Last week, Gabe got ulcery again, so there went almost $150 for a week’s treatment of UlcerGuard (since he’s prone to them and a week’s dosing calms the occasional flare-ups). Last month, we learned Nell has a heart murmur, so if we ever need to put her under for something (like a teeth cleaning), the vet won’t do it until she’s been ok-ed out by a cardiologist (a few hundred-dollar appointment next Thurs.). Before the cardiologist, she had to have blood work done ($200 appointment was this past Tues.). Sam’s scheduled for a Holistic appointment next Tues. (also about $150 and which will probably serve as fodder for next Wed.’s blog post), but will also be seeing the vet today for antibiotics from The Biohazard Event ($????).
I’m certainly not sorry that they’re all getting taken care of, and I do realize that this is the price for having pets, esp. the big ones. So I really am not regretting said ownership and responsibility, but it does hurt to hemorrhage money like this. And last night, during The Cleanup, I realized this whole comes-in-thousands thing and came to an abrupt realization: for once, the cats are the GOOD PETS in all this. This came as such a shock that my brain promptly exploded, and Clayton had to finish cleaning the office of the biohazard and the bits of brain matter. It required a lot of paper towels.