Unholy Shat

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Today on the way home I called my hubs to tell him I love him and stuffs.  We started talking about dinner.

We had 3 options to work with: salmon, chicken, and ground turkey. He asked what I would like. I said that I thought salmon would be a good choice, since it would probably go bad first. Done.  Gosh, I’m brilliant.

I pick up the kids, get in the car and I notice a text: “G shit all over herself and her cage today”. Nice. I was grossed out but in more of a “sucks to be him” kind of way. I suspected I would walk in to find her outside, maybe hosed off, maybe not yet, and my husband elbow-deep in dog poo while he cleaned her kennel.

That, my lovelies, was not the case.

Not until I got home did I understand the level of aromatic catastrophe, nee devastation that would finger punch my sense of smell right in the throat and virtually eliminate my intent to eat.

Close your eyes and let this all sink in… No, wait. Bad idea. Then you can’t read. Ok, just think about it.  A large Labrador retriever in her plastic and metal kennel for roughly 8 hours. At some point she poos herself.

From what I’m guessing is either exhaustion or defeat (I imagine she may have decided, “well, that was a lot of work. I feel like I should take advantage of it. Let’s see how this feels all over my dog body”), she decides to wallow in it. Like a hog wallows in mud.

For those of you who aren’t from the south, “wallow” is a verb often pronounced “waller”. An action word meaning to get shat all over oneself.

In the meantime, my sweet husband comes home and starts up the ol’ George Foreman. Then he gently places a beautiful filet o’ salmon on the griddle and lets the heat do its job.

Then, I imagine, he opens the garage door to let the pup out. He opens the lock on her kennel and out she runs, spreading the ripe aromatic assault through the first floor of our house.  My poor husband realizes what’s happening in time to corral her outside but not before she steps on his shoe, smudging shat across it as she poo-gallops through our downstairs.

I enter the home just as the smells of grilling fish and dog poo join hands in unholy matrimony. Aaand just about puke. 

It seems our G must have a stomach bug. All night she’s farted and shat. Let’s hope Lola stays well… Happy Dog Poo Day to us! Y’all pray for my husband’s sanity.  I fear he’s on the brink.  He’s spent his entire evening cleaning dog poo and he’s on call…  Tomorrow is a new day.

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