Day 13 of Captivity
Er, I mean, vacation, of course.
Yesterday, I labored for twelve hours to eradicate any evidence of the holidays from my house. When Hugh finally hefted the box containing the Christmas tree into the attic at nine p.m., I could have wept with happiness. Instead, I celebrated the accomplishment by standing outside in the freezing air waiting for Rowdie to take a dump so I could just go to bed already.
Do I know how to party or what?
Speaking of Rowdie’s dumps, today was his first well-puppy visit with the vet. After he was weighed (sixteen and a half pounds at seven weeks old, yikes!), examined and shot up with the necessary puppy immunity, the vet handed me a plastic container and began to explain how I was to go about obtaining a stool sample since, you know, I am currently the one at home with him during the day.
Now, I don’t do poop. I just don’t. When Rowdie relieves himself, Hugh or one of the children is responsible for hazardous materials disposal. I do my part; I bring home the food. I buy the treats and toys. I wash the dog, clean up his muddy paw prints and massage his tickle spot until his eyes roll back in his head and his leg starts kicking as if he was trying to jump-start a motorcycle. But. I. Don’t Do. Poop.
The dog knows this. Still, the obvious look of disgust on my face apparently offended the poor baby who looked at me as if to say “What, your shit don’t stink?” while giving me the puppy equivalent of an eye-roll before heading outside to do his business while Hugh was in attendance and able to collect the necessary “sample”.
I bought him treats and a new stuffed squeaky toy for his thoughtfulness.
Have I mentioned that I am ready to go back to work?