I’ve Got 99 Problems But Poop In My Vacuum Seems To Be The Biggest One

You guys.

What was I thinking?

What on God’s green earth could have possessed me to think that getting a puppy roughly five minutes after moving into our brand new house was a good idea?

Deep down I knew this was an error in judgement.

But one look at this friggin face and I was toast.

 I mean, really. I still can’t even deal with how cute he was. I say was because that small adorable puppy turned into a big puppy.

That big puppy began to do all kinds of unspeakable things to my new carpet. Things he should be ashamed of. That big puppy chewed our brand new baseboards. He chewed our brand new porch posts. He farts uncontrollably. He snores. He killed one of the neighbor’s new chickens and then left it on our doorstep. For me to pick up.  And dispose of. And apologize for. As if I would be pleased by this. As if he is doing me some kind of favor.

He shamelessly shoves his nose into the crotch or butt (whatever’s closest really- he doesn’t discriminate) of every person who enters our home.  He senses when it is Pet Show and Tell day at preschool and spends the whole morning rolling in mud.

Look at his eyes. He knows he’s naughty.

You know what’s NOT awesome? Wrestling your 75 pound puppy into the upstairs bathtub. And then giving him a bath. And then putting that same 75 pound puppy who is now wet into your car and driving him to Show and Tell so he can strut around feeling proud of himself. When all you really want to do is lock him in the garage but no, because your 5-year-old would be crushed, as Pet Show and Tell is about as big of a deal as it gets in preschool.

He chews off doll hands. Just the hands, mind you. He brings deer ticks INSIDE MY PLACE OF DWELLING. I cannot even tell you how much this creeps me out. Those filthy little beasts suck your blood. If you ask me, it does not get any more debased than that.

For those of you who already know that I am somewhat of a mental case when it comes to keeping my home clean, you can imagine the constant state of distress I am in these days. The mere possibility of finding a blood sucking crawler or a random doll hand strewn about the house is more than a little off-putting. It’s enough to make me lose my mind.

In my defense I didn’t ever completely lose it until one recently unfortunate day when I failed to see one of Scout’s “gifts” for me in the form a brown turd on our brown wood floors and I just vacuumed that piece of crap right up.

A vacuum does not bounce back from such an event. A lot of smearing and melting happens in the very short amount of time required to realize one’s error. Suffice it to say, there was not enough disinfectant in the world. So I got a new vacuum. A nice one, too. I love it. I use it all the time. In fact, I use it at least 4 times a week because dog hair. And now, I am here to tell you that my big dumb puppy has defiled two vacuums.

You might wonder how a person can make the mistake of vacuuming up poop even once, much less twice.

But as I’ve told you, when I’m cleaning I don’t mess around. I go fast and hard. Sometimes I am distracted.

Things happen.

Yesterday morning I came down the stairs at the ungodly hour of 5 am and the most putrid smell hit me like a punch in the face, assaulting my nostrils with an indescribably pungent odor. I staggered around in my sleepy stupor trying to make sense of this horrific smell.

Was it food?

No.

Was it a dead animal?

Please God, no.

And then I saw it. 

There.

Not even two feet from the outside, where it belonged.

Poop.

Not just regular poop. 

Diarrhea.

You know what else is NOT awesome? Gagging violently and retching until tears stream down your face while you clean up poop at 5 am. Poop that did not even come from one of your children.

You’d be surprised at sheer volume and variety of fecal matter that a mother is expected to withstand in her life.

But this- this was pushing me to my limit. I had to run outside every few minutes to gulp fresh air because I was dangerously close to throwing up. It wasn’t just on the wood floor. It was in the carpet. Not on the carpet. In the carpet.

Adding insult to injury, Scout did nothing but sit near my feet as I cleaned wagging his tail as if to say “Good morning! Here is my turd! I love you!”

I scrubbed, I cleaned, I disinfected, and then I chose not to think about it for the rest of the day because otherwise I knew I’d go completely mental.

I am sad to tell you that I miraculously managed to forget all about it until this morning when HE DID IT AGAIN.

It was like a crime scene. 

Really, dog?

Really?

It’s like that?

Long story short I scolded, I scrubbed, cleaned, and disinfected again and then later when I was doing my standard afternoon vacuuming I had somehow blocked the ordeal from my memory and accidentally vacuumed right over the first spot and everything everywhere instantly smelled like diarrhea.

At this rate we will be going through vacuums quarterly. Not to mention the carpet cleaning bills.

I can’t even talk about it. But then I have to, because it’s just so awful.

Here’s the thing with 8 month old puppies: their bodies are big! They appear, for all intents and purposes to be a sensible, full-grown, useful dog.

It is a trick.

They are not. 

The sad truth is that Scout knows these shenanigans will affect his happy, furry life quite little. He’s in. He is part of the family and we love him and he’s not going anywhere.

I, on the other hand may end up at a home for the infirm.