By Jeff M. Brown
www.boredfactoryworker.com
“It’s funny how dogs and cats know the inside of folks better than other folks do, isn’t it?” – Eleanor H. Porter
“It’s funny how I know the inside of my wife’s dog better than he does.” – Jeff Brown
Black and Brown Friday
The horrible scene keeps replaying itself in my mind. If I had a psychologist, I’m sure I’d be diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. All I can say about the incident is that it was the most horrible ordeal I’ve ever had to overcome in my life.
Ever since that day (I call it Black and Brown with a touch of Green Friday) I’m terribly preoccupied with the digestive cycle of my wife’s dog, Traveler. “Hey, dog,” I say at least one or two or ten times a day in a concerned, but reassuring tone, “when was the last time you did your business? In other words, how are you feeling today, Traveler, intestinally speaking?”
To say the dog had an accident would be a colossal understatement. This was no fender bender in the world of doggy misdemeanors; this was a major chain reaction pileup (literally). The first inkling I had that something might be wrong was when I got home and stepped through the kitchen door. Something didn’t smell quite right. Did I forget to take the garbage out last night? Did the sewer back up?
When I went into the living room, there was no doubt of the source of the offending smell molecules: the dog had apparently exploded. Don’t get me wrong, Traveler was fine. He was fast asleep near the front door waiting patiently for my wife to get home. But, somehow, I didn’t quite understand because it must have violated several laws of physics and quantum mechanics, the entire “inside” of the dog had somehow materialized “outside,” or, to be more specific, “on the surface of my living room carpet.”
It was everywhere. There were (not that I was counting) 23 globs of dog poop scattered haphazardly from the kitchen, through the living room, all the way to the office, not unlike some sort of canine minefield. Unfortunately for me (and the carpet I had just vacuumed the evening before) these were no ordinary dog turds that could easily be picked up or, as some dog aficionados (which I am definitely not) might say, “scooped.” They were more of a pudding like consistency comprised of the remnants of the previous night’s supper (kibble and bits and bits of pure evil).
How was I going to clean this up? For a few moments I just stared at the carnage slack-jawed, but that didn’t last long because I almost puked, so I stepped outside to clear my head. Okay, Jeff, you can figure this out, but you need a plan. Let’s see… I could wait for my wife to get home. It’s her dog. She should do it, but she won’t be home for hours.
“Jeff,” I said aloud, “you’re a man of action. You can’t just let a sleeping dog’s poop lie, especially all around the inside of your house!” With renewed resolve, I marched back inside and grabbed the cat’s litter box shovel, a container of Lysol Disinfecting Wipes, a can of carpet cleaner, and the trash bucket. All the while I worked out a 5-step cleaning procedure.
1. Take a deep breath and hold it.
2. Scrape the poop off the carpet with the shovel.
3. Scrape the shovel off in the trash bucket.
4. Wipe up the carpet as best as I could.
5. Rush outside for another breath of fresh air before I passed out.
I repeated this procedure no less than 23 times (not that I was counting) and then I steam-cleaned the entire carpet. Finally, I thought, Black and Brown with a touch of Green Friday was over. Too bad for me the cats, not wishing to be outdone by the dog, were already planning Upchuck Saturday.
