You'd Barf Too

I have written before of my wonderful dog. Seriously, I love her to pieces, Ralph and I have even talked about getting her cloned. But when I wrote of my wonderful little girl dog I left out her one nasty little habit. She eats her own poo.

Foul, I know, the vet said that she probably developed the habit when she was a homeless dog. They eat their own poo and their puppies' poo in order to make themselves less noticable to preditors. Hello, where I live she is more likely to run into a skunk or a squirrel than anything that would do her real harm.

I have tried to be sympathetic about it, I picture her trying to protect her babies (which were not found with her, so they probably didn't survive). But the whole thing just disgusts me (and we've tried a million things to stop it). Literally, if she could reach her head around while she is squatting, she'd eat it like soft serve. On the bright side, I figure that at least she is discerning enough to only eat her own shit, at least she knows where its' been.

So, for 5 1/2 years Ralph and I have diligintly watched her every time she does her business in the yard. But today, after more than half a decade of never being lazy about watching her, I was lazy.

I haven't slept well all week, and last night I did. I just wanted it to last a little longer. Ralph announced that he was going to sleep in before the dog jumped off of the bed. When The Nurse gets her narcoleptic ass up before she is told to, we know she means business, so Ralph and I argued about who would get up with her, and as usually I relented. But, I had a plan.

I let her out and went back to bed, as I told Ralph, what's the worst that could happen. He replied that she could get out and get hit by a car...not likely. She could have a poop eating feista...then I guess you should go get her, afterall, I let her out. Of course, neither of us got up to go get her and she was outside, unsupervised for maybe half an hour. Ralph let her in and she ran over to eat her food. Then she promptly ran upstairs and barfed up a big glump of mucus, grass and shit. That's right, my dog barfed shit.

So Ralph with his dainty delicate stomach announces that he can't clean it up, which means I HAVE to clean it up or I'm gonna have shitpuke sitting on my wood fucking floor all day. Must I even discuss what shitpuke smells like.

As I am cleaning pile 1, the dog barfs up some more shitpuke on the stairs. All I can say is thank god for this. So I ask Ralph to take her into the kitchen where we can trap her in with baby gates and she can shitpuke her little heart out all over the tile.

Which she did.

Is 9 a.m. too early for a cocktail?