I’ll Take “Things I Can’t Unsmell” for $5000 Alex

I want a refund on my weekend.

Remember how I told you I was sending my oldest off to her first overnight camp for the weekend this past one?

WELL, that one didn’t work out. Saturday morning first thing I got a call that there were some stomach issues that required me to pick her up. After some research, drama investigation, followed by more digestive issues, it was decided it was, in fact, a virus and not the sickness of home and we had to insure that the rest of the Methodist camp didn’t come down with the “weekend weight loss” disease. So I picked that girl up in Waycross thanks to a kind counselor that offered to shave off a few hours round trip for me. Thankfully I had some football to entertain me on that long boring drive that wasn’t in my plans for my Saturday. Alas, parenting calls and I’ve been nursing her back to health ever since. Tucking her in to bed last night, I gave a little sigh of relief that perhaps this virus had skipped the rest of my offspring and I hadn’t heard of any widespread outbreaks on the island she was about 48 hours prior.

BUT THEN. Fast forward to about 12:11 A.M. We were asleep, like most of you were. Out of nowhere I’m aroused from my slumber by an Arcadian, high-pitched, whimper. Swimming to the surface, it occurs to me that it is a noise made by my pup. So I do what most good wives do– I kick my husband in the fanny and tell him that the dog is whining and to see what it’s about. He doesn’t respond. So I use my foot again, this time with a little toe nail action and that gets some recoil. He says, “HUH?” and then the rest of what he tells me needs a Rosetta Stone for Swahili to make sense of and I just decide I will get up and look.for.my.self.dangit.

We have a small L-shaped hallway that comes off of our bedroom and leads to our living room, where this now less-idyllic bleating is coming from. I blindly type in the pass code to disarm the alarm figuring that the dog just needs to run out for a quick potty. Once I hit the crook of the hallway, my nostrils are assaulted guerrilla warfare style. As the rods and cones in my eyes are working their level best to get some clear vision for me, the sclera, too, is ravished by the odor that burns it to red. I continue to forge ahead because I am a battle tested warrior and I ain’t skeerd. Making out a furry and now blurry white, breathing, moaning animal as I move closer to him, my foot lands in a warm, mushy pile. A WARM MUSHY PILE. THESE AREN’T ANGEL TEARS UNDERFOOT. SOS.

Now, my great forging ahead turns more into ginger navigation of a land mine that has been set before me. It’s enemy territory, in my home. I feel so very threatened. And also so very nauseated. And also so very TICKED OFF. IT IS 12:15 AM AND I JUST WANT TO SLEEP.

I fumble for the key, unlock the door, and cuss the dog out of it. He scurries into the deep darkness to handle himself. Next, I turn on the light to see what the status of my foot is and how many other land mines have been laid out on the floor. And I wasn’t ready, people. I wasn’t ready. I’m still not ready.

Lights on, and I see that the land mines were only half the battle plan my pooch had orchestrated for me. My seagrass rug now resembled artistry by Poocasso himself. This dog of ~~mine~~ my husband’s had literally marched around my coffee table as if he were Joshua in the battle of Jericho and instead of blowing a shofar as his battle cry he blew a whole lot else.

Hopping on one foot to the kitchen to get some ammo for the mess kit needed, I discover there is poop behind the couch, up the steps, on the tile, in my sunroom, and on my sisal rug, too. Did I mention my foot?

Splat packs were everywhere.

There, under the dark cover of night and through the green haze of the odor, I created no less than 29 new four-letter word combinations. Sailors would have blushed. Satan may have quivered.

After cleaning 22% of the square footage of my house and my foot with enough Clorox wipes and paper towel rolls and Fabuloso to keep P&G and Sam’s Club in business for the foreseeable future, I decided the rugs would have to wait until tomorrow. Or really, a few hours until rise and shine time. And really really until I could have my dearest sleeping husband get his butt up and enjoy the fun with me.

I went to the back door and called the dog. He starts toward me in a slow trot, and in his last attempt at a valiant stand darts like a cannon ball through a barrel between the door and jamb and me and launches himself back into his kennel. Rounding the corner, I can see he has his ears pinned so far back that any farther and they would be inverted. Bless him, hims sick, but hims in trouble, too. Turning off the lights and crawling back into bed with singed nose hairs and raw fingers and a foot I’d sooner have had amputated on the battlefield, I attempt to go back to sleep. The adrenaline is pumping through my veins after that assault, so it takes some time to get back to full repose.

What feels like a few minutes later, the alarm goes off to start Monday. I think to myself, things have to only be looking up from here…I will remain positive. I will remain positive.

And then it hits me…I’ve got my annual exam today.

The cherry on top of my Poop Sunday.