Farm Fresh Blog

     There are two things guaranteed to bolt you from even the deepest of slumbers - the familiar "uhm-uhmmm-yAACK" of a dog wretching, and the smell of warm diarrhea on the carpet.  People will die in house fires without waking up, but if dog poops in the bedroom at 4 AM, there is no sleeping around that. Perhaps they should make fire alarms for Dog People that have a barf sound instead of a siren, or emit a blast of poop smell rather than a piercing sound. But I digress . . .

     When assaulted by that awful aroma, two people who have sworn to love each other "til death do us part" will begin an under-the-covers argument that goes something like this:

"Wake up! One of the dogs got sick!"

"No. That's just Dillon farting."

"That is NOT Dillon farting! It's dog sh*t!"

Truthfully, that should really be part of the marriage vows too. 

 "In sickness and in health, when the dog craps on the floor, til death do you part."

     At this time, it's worth pointing out that despite the fact that it's colder than a polar bear's nose outside, Other Half cannot sleep without a fan - a fan which is wafting the aroma of warm poop across the bedroom. Having played this game before, I lean over and turn on the lamp.  (Do NOT, for any reason, get out of bed BEFORE you turn on the light. This is advice learned the hard way.)

     With the light on, I scan the carpet at my feet.  No land mines.  Whew!  His side of the bed = his problem. Tentatively tip-toe around bed.  THERE it is! Definitely his side of the bed.  Now begins the other familiar argument which goes something like this:

"That's yours. It's on your side of the bed!"

"Unt UHHH! I did it last time! In the dining room!"

"No way. That one does not count because YOU were in charge of the puppy and YOU failed to take him out and left a COLD turd under the table for me to find when I came home from work."

     Thus begins the "ownership clause" part of the argument. If it can be proven the poop belongs to YOUR dog, it's your poop.  May I point out again that it is 4 AM and the turd is cooling.

"It was Lily!"

"It was NOT Lily!  She never got off the bed.  It was not Dillon. He never got off the bed. It wasn't Cowboy. He always poops beside the door. (so you can slide it through the carpet when you open the door.) It had to be Trace."

     Pointing out that it was Trace is safe for me since Trace is Other Half's dog. He accepts this argument, scowls, and rolls out of bed. And steps in another turd. It squishes between his toes.

     There is a howl loud enough to wake the neighbors. It is now 4:05 AM. Two piles of warm poop before the sun is up. There is nothing to do but put the dogs outside and help him. At this point we begin Argument #3 - WHY the dog is sick.

"Don't feed them any more rawhide chew bones!"

"It wasn't the rawhide chew.  He didn't even eat much of it. He just guarded it, growling like Gollum muttering about his Precious. What did YOU feed him?"

And that's when it hits him.

"Did you feed him ranch style beans last night?"

(Rut-ro.  Ma bad.)

"Uhhmmmm..... He got to clean out the pot before he went to bed."

     Good thing Other Half is already cleaning up the poop because YOU GOT EM SICK trumps IT'S YOUR DOG and technically the turd has just become mine. Had he still been under the electric blanket it would be a different story, but as it is 4:30 AM and the job is over we can tackle the next problem together - the entire north side of the house smells like diarrhea. We solve this by lighting a candle and setting spare bars of scented soap in front of the fan. Within minutes all we can smell is soap, candle, and the salty aroma of Fritos corn chips (Dillon's feet) as he snuggles between us.

     And thus we go back to bed to ponder ranch style beans, dogs in the house, fire alarms, and marriage vows.