The Poop-pocalypse

We enjoy cleaning our living room at 3 a.m.

I don't think I've ever started a blog with a warning, but here it is: Today's entry is not for the squeamish because it deals with poop. I will use the "S" word several times. Quick. Click here. The use of a swear word is in part to accurately report what was said last night, in part because there is simply no other word to describe what happened as anything other than a shitstorm.

You were warned.

But don't worry, there will be no more photos. Obviously, I like chronological story forms, so we'll start last night at around 9 p.m. Daisy went in her crate with her usual half cup of food. It was a typical rainy day. She got a little beef rawhide treat and chewed on her bone. Nothing to report.

Her crate door didn't quite click right when I put her in for the night. But I grabbed the door and pulled on it several times. It didn't budge. Good enough for me. I went to bed and passed out.

Around 2 a.m., I was having my usual middle of the night semi-consciousness when the door to our room swung open.

Ghost!

No, dog. Daisy came running in and snuggled up to Amy. Thank heavens for small favors. For me.

I got off the bed and walked into the hall. Daisy was being weird. She wouldn't come into the hallway. Dogs know shame. There were a few droplets of poop at the top of the stairs. I was confused and half awake. Then the smell hit me.

Oh my God.

It's the kind of smell that is unmistakeable. The dog has diarrhea.

TW smelled it, too, but for a different reason. Daisy was a mess and had gotten poop on the sheets around Amy when she came up for a little cuddle. I went back in the bedroom to get some different, I-don't-care-if-they-get-dirty clothes. As I put on the pants next to the bed, Daisy started to gag and heave. I pulled the comforter out of the way just as her vomit hit the spot on the floor where it used to sit.

It was 2:01 a.m.

The smell, my God, the smell. It was coming from downstairs, the main floor of our house where the kitchen, dining room and living room are. It was thick and smelled like wine.

The poop, unfortunately, was generally not thick. There was a small, solid pile just in front of the front door, but it devolved from there. She had vomited on the living room rug. There was a dripping pile of brown poop on our beloved, been-to-hell-and-back couch. There were droplets all around the living room and a soft pool near the back door.

It was like she was trying to escape. If only she had.

TW let Daisy out back to take care of any unfinished business. I walked to the Cumbie (Cumberland Farms) gas station that's around the corner. There's something to be said for city living. I bought three rolls of recycled paper towels (that's the only kind they carry) and returned home.

While I was gone, TW brought bed sheets downstairs and let Daisy back inside. That turned out to be a mistake. While Amy was loading the washing machine Daisy fired off another poop salvo, letting out a giant pool in the basement.

Three floors of our house, poop on every floor. It was 2:10 a.m.

This should be my couch, floating out to sea.

I didn't know where to start. Neither did TW. All you can do is put your head down and start picking up piles of poop. I started at the front of the house. We did the floors in the living room. But it was the couch that you need to hear about.

We started muttering, "shit" and "Oh my God" over and over when we saw the couch. She had hit TW's favorite blanket. TW rinsed the blanket in the bathtub before putting it in the washing machine. But the couch was still disgusting.

Cleaning the surface was easy enough. We had to pull the couch out because it had been dripping through the cracks. Then we had to pry the cracks open so Amy could reach inside and wipe the cloth surfaces inside. If we had any income, any income whatsoever, we would get rid of this couch and get something else. Anything else. A pile of rags would do. We used all our rags last night, though. The couch took half an hour. It was 2:45 a.m.

The rest of the cleaning went pretty smoothly. On the last pile, in the basement, TW was gagging. I sent her upstairs to give the dog a bath. Then I broke out the bleach to take care of the cement floor in the basement. Bleach has never smelled so amazingly good.

When I came back up, I couldn't smell anything. My olfactory nerves had been overworked. We debated what to do with the dog and decided the crate was probably the right place. It was 3:15 a.m.

TW suffered from PTSD and didn't get back to sleep until at least 4:30 a.m. When she finally rolled out of bed, cutting it close to get to work, she let Daisy out back and fed her a half cup of food.

Daisy, apologetic and sweet as ever, did her usual morning routine except she didn't have any urine or feces to produce. Weird.

Daisy then charged up the stairs like usual and jumped on the bed like usual. What was abnormal was what happened next. Often, the puppy stares at me for hours, waiting for any sign of life because that means we're going to go play or do something fun. Today, she just plopped her body down on Amy's pillow and laid her head next to my head on my pillow.

Then she moaned and sighed at the same time. It was a long night for everybody.