I received a package in the mail today. It's a thank you gift from my brother and sister-in-law for taking the dogs this week. It's a bribe (a very nice one with some very clever notes attached...even if Joe's French program comes with an interactive DVD game that he insists we play. But still, thank you.) so I wouldn't write a blog describing how their Saint Bernard dragged me around the neighborhood on my face. And I'm not going to write that blog. It didn't happen. I didn't walk the dog around the neighborhood (I did walk her around Settler's Green and while she did pull a lot, she didn't drag me around on my face.). There are some families in our neighborhood who think it's all right to let their dogs outside unsupervised and let them wander wherever they may. Then little Fluffy charges whatever people and/or dogs happen to be innocently walking by. So the day little Fluffy charged me while walking Big and I experienced the joy of being dragged around on my face around the neighborhood was pretty much the last time I walked the dogs around the neighborhood. If I do it now, I do it in the middle of the day during the week when these families are most likely at work.
But anyway, I won't be writing a blog about Bru dragging me around on my face, or any other body part. But I am going to write this blog about Max's Very Bad Morning.
Max has had a...well, let's just say colorful history of visits in our home. The color being yellow. But this trip, he's done very well. If he's peed anywhere, I haven't found it yet. He's also been reasonably quiet, unlike his sister who has pretty much barked (for no known reason other than she can) for the past two days now.
So maybe he was due...I don't know, but Max had a Very Bad Morning.
It all started when he came downstairs from his crate to find Fat Cat in the kitchen. Suffering from a severe case of Little Man Syndrome the way he does, Max thought barking, charging and trying to make Fat Cat his bitch would be a Good Idea.
Here's what it looked like...You know, if Fat Cat was Indiana Jones and Max was the guy with the sword.
So after Max was finished squealing and running away, we went outside. This next part is gross and, if you are me, rather traumatic. Consider yourselves warned.
Max had some diarrhea. Well, "some" probably isn't the right word. It was a little more than "some". And if you think that's the gross part, you're wrong. The gross part is that it got stuck. Yeah. Stuck. Which then required me to help him get it unstuck. That would be the traumatic part. But it gets better because I then had to bring him and his exploding ass inside so I could scrub him clean.
Neither of us were very pleased by this.
Then, after scrubbing my hands with antibacterial soap for twenty minutes, I had to change my clothes because I had to go to work today. If there had been time, I would have showered again too because I was convinced I smelled like Schnauzer shit.
If I did, no one mentioned it.
Anyway, while I was changing, Bru attempted another sneak attack on her poor ailing brother. He happened to be sitting on the couch at the time. You can probably guess what happened then.
That's right. I gave Bru a stern lecture about how it was not okay to jump on the couch. I don't think she even realized I was irritated. Max, however, he knew because he had had his share of my stern lectures. Especially that day he peed all over my daybed. Last time he ever did that.
After the stern lecture came to a close, I then fixed the couch. Again. With luck, it'll last through the weekend. I have since barricaded it from further sneak attacks. It'll make it harder to sit on but it would appear that sitting on the couch may be hazardous to our health.
Joe want a sectional with a recliner anyway. Now we have a real reason to look for one.
Always a silver lining, right?
I went to Joe's office after work today and told him how awesome the morning had been. Joe's response: "When are they leaving? Sunday? Great. I'll be home then."
Sounds like someone needs a hug. Or a beer.
Now, if you'll excuse me, the Gator Girl is mounting a sneak attack on the cookie cupboard.