P.U.: I Know, You Want My Life

I smelled it. I just couldn't find it.

Yeah, I know. Nice. So, I look downstairs, room by room. Nothing. The dogs are potty trained, but they are finicky. They don't like rain. And for the last 24 hours non-stop it's been raining. And so they've been limping around the house with legs crossed. I pushed them out the door once or twice and they just looked at me, forlorn, from the porch which just pissed me off. I knew they had to go, and bad, and they refused.

But I couldn't blame them out of hand for the smell, because I have a kid who has decided that "I WANT TO GO POTTY!" Well, we're at the stage where he announces the desire to go to the bathroom and what do you know, he already has. I'm guessing he'll turn around the order by the time he goes to college. After the first couple kids, I just stopped obsessing.

However, he does have episodes. He doesn't like poopy diapers anymore and if he can't find me or just generally gets impatient, surprise! So, was the offending smell a product of the toddler? The thought sent an electric jolt through my limbs. I got a little crazy. This is where hidden cameras would be so embarrassing. Check that. They'd be embarrassing all the time. Quite freaked out, I ran through the house screaming for the kid. Found him. Clothed and clean. Phew. But still P.U.

Screw it.

I had stuff to do and had to leave the house and the nasty stench. But I also had to come back home. It hit me like a frigging shit wall. Gah! I looked around again, but was too damn lazy to make the long walk up the stairs. Eventually, I'd have to go up there. In a fit of denial, I actually thought that the smell was the trash. I took it out. I turned on fans. And I thought to myself, It smells better. That must be it.

Have I mentioned how much I hate bodily excretions? It is a sign of my motherly love that the kids ever get clean pants. Puking, pooping, peeing. Oh my! But that is nothing when compared to my dog excretion aversion. Just do your business outside like every other civilized being, but no, they search for and find hidden corners and leave deposits. And this is when I start hating animal rights people. Animals are so not people. Animals do not deserve special treatment.

Eventually, I found them. Two dogs. Two piles. One big. One small.

You know, the other day, when the angry men from other blogs stopped by, one guy asked what the point of having kids was. Are you freaking kidding me? I'll answer your question with a a question: What is redeeming about owning an animal? You feed, water, house the beasts and then they shit in your house? They don't get a job. They don't do the laundry. They don't take out the trash. Hell, they grab the trash, shred it and spread it around. Insurance doesn't cover them. They eat chocolate, make themselves sick and then you spend thousands trying to fix them. It costs more to get the dog's fucking hair cut (which also happened today) than it does to get mine cut. That just. Ain't. Right.

So, on this boiling backdrop, I find the shit and I want to murder them with my bare hands. Caninicide. The only thing that stopped me is that Wachel Lukis would report me to the animal C.O.P.S. They actually have that show here in Houston. So the dogs live. They sleep at my feet right now, but the love hasn't returned. Oh no. It will, eventually. Maybe tomorrow, the little one will hump the big one's face (don't tell mys sister) and that'll make me laugh. Redemption. Conditional redemption. I'm a fickle god.

Dog shit. Kid shit. A stanky house. It's all glam glam and bon bons here alright. I'm living the glamorous life. I just thought you should know. You're jealous. Admit it.