Warning: This post contains profanity and graphic descriptions of the most disgusting thing dogs do, which is to eat poo. Read at your own risk.
It began like any other beautiful, Carolina weekend. I was recording my Half Fast Saturday video just outside my fence while my dog–my sweet baby–Grace, was lounging inside the fence. Or so I thought.
First, if you haven’t been following Half Fast and Classy on Facebook, you’re missing the Half Fast Saturday videos! Get on over there right now and follow. Followed? Okay, now the story.
Actually, a little back story is that Grace doesn’t like to potty in our yard. While I applaud her desire for pristine grounds within our little fence, it can be a bit exasperating on the occasions when we don’t have time for a full-blown walk and I have to beg, plead, and demand for her to “go potty, Grace, go potty.” The neighbors probably hear that phrase in their sleep.
Anywho, I was about 15 feet away on the outside of the fence planting some hostas and recording my progress. When I stepped back into the yard, I caught her red-handed. At first, I didn’t realize what I had caught her doing. Grace was in the far half of the yard, and she froze like a deer in headlights with her head at half mast, looking like she was debating between saying nothing or running.
As I approached, I saw that she had gone potty all on her own. Awesome! Maybe after 17 months she’s finally getting the hang of this. In my mind I was doing a little celebratory dance, thinking of the cold early mornings that I would not have to stand outside with her and beg for her to pooter. And then she licked it. The one turd. The one remaining turd. Yep, she had been dining al fecal. Noooooooo!
Why, WHY do dogs do that? It’s disgusting. It is beyond comprehension. Please, do not tell me she is missing something from her diet. I will roll my eyes and fall on the floor in psychological exhaustion. This dog is fed better than I feed myself. She is also provided with clean, fresh water throughout the day. Don’t even get me started on the treats.
Now, if the neighbors are tired of hearing my “go potty, Grace, go potty” mantra, they sure must have been surprised to hear me scream NOOOOO! as that last, lonely turd was released from her tongue so fast that it bounced in the grass. The dancing turd. Whether Mr. Hankey was a victim or willing participant, it wasn’t his fault, and as much as I wanted to squash him, I surely didn’t want to track his kind into my home.
I scolded Grace and rushed her into the house so I could finish my gardening. Clearly, she could not be trusted to enjoy our tiny yard without having eyes on her every minute. I checked on her a couple of times, and when I joined her inside about an hour or so later, she looked guilty. I looked everywhere to see what she might have done. Did she chew something because I scolded her? Did she potty in the house (which would be seriously out of character for her)? As I checked each room, she followed me, looking increasingly guilty, yet no evidence. Hmm.
It was getting onto 11:00 and I still hadn’t had breakfast, so I made myself a burger and settled onto the sofa where I eat 99% of my meals. Grace snuggled up next to me as usual, but still looked riddled with guilt.
Well it wasn’t guilt. She had an upset tummy. I know this because as I was half way through my burger, she projectile vomited about a gallon of liquid onto the sofa. Specifically, she pointed her mouth to where the sofa cushion meets the sofa arm so as to cover not only the cushion, but also the inside wall and the base on which the cushions rest.
Now, this was no ordinary vomit, because remember what she ate an hour or so before, right? This was craptastic liquid sh-t vomit. And it smelled worse than anything you can possibly imagine. And it was voluminous.
Suddenly, the burger in my hand, almost to my mouth, became so repugnant that I threw it onto the plate as if it were burning my hands. I grabbed the three blankets on the sofa that were not involved in the waterfall of putridity and quickly made a bed for Grace on the floor in case there was more coming. I would rather she be sick on something that can go into the wash than on furniture or the rug. I got her settled and ran like a mad woman from the room because the gag reflex had kicked in. You know what I’m talking about, right? Especially those of us who don’t have children. I don’t know how you mommies and daddies change those diapers, because it makes me gag so much that my eyes tear. That’s where I was in that moment.
I returned with a can of Lysol and sprayed, and sprayed, and sprayed. Still, the smell of sh-t prevailed. Don’t worry, Grace had been moved into the bedroom and the door closed by then. I didn’t know what to do, where to begin, because there was so. much. vomit. Run from the room retching, return to spray, repeat. After 10 or 15 minutes of spraying, gagging, and exclaiming to the empty room “Oh my GAWD!” OMFG! I finally regained some composure and realized the sofa had to leave. The odor was too overwhelming, and I could not see a way to even begin cleaning the sofa, so out the door it was going.
The sofa sat against a wall with the front legs on a large area rug and the back legs off the rug, sitting directly on the hardwood floor. When I moved the sofa forward, I saw that the liquid sh-t vomit had gone completely through the sofa and pooled on the hardwood floor beneath. My stomach was now so sensitive that just the sight of a puddle of yellow-brown liquid sent me into gag mode again.
But there was no time for a weak tummy now. If this sh-t fluid was leaking through the sofa, time was of the dung-filled essence. I knew from moving in that the sofa would not fit through the door with the legs on, so I flipped it on its back and began removing the legs, working as quickly as I could, all the while getting the ab workout of a lifetime from all the heaving.
When I flipped the sofa on its back, the liquid slushed from inside the bottom onto the backrest and flowed onto the area rug. I thought the rug had been spared, but no. Now the rug, too, was infected with the hellish, repugnant regurgitation.
The legs were off and I pushed the sofa a few feet across the floor and out the door. My adrenaline must have kicked in, because it landed with a thud when the far end of it hit the bottom of the stairs. If anyone had been walking by, they would have watched my sofa shoot from the front door and down the stairs like a missile.
I surveyed the room. A streak of liquid sh-t vomit looked like a child’s underwear skid mark across my living room floor, there was a puddle of the putrid poo cocktail on the floor near the wall, and a round stank stain stared at me from the rug, which I promptly rolled and shoved out the door to be reunited with the sofa. I gagged one last time and got to work cleaning.
I don’t own a mop, but rather a set of kneepads, a bucket, and rubber gloves because I don’t trust a mop to do my cleaning. After two rounds of scrubbing, all the Lysol spray in the world, and the burning of a toasted coconut soy candle, I could smell nothing but feces. So I did what anyone would–I went shopping. Sofa shopping!
Grace was looking like her normal self, no actually she was looking great after her extreme super-cleanse, so I put the fan on high, got her settled in her crate with the door open in case she wanted to stretch out on the bare floor, and off I went.
Do you ever get an odor stuck in your nose like a song on repeat in your head? I do.
As I drove down the highway with the air on and the windows open, all I could smell was the horrid stench of liquid sh-t vomit. I was sure there was a visible, excremental tail billowing from the back of my car. A dark purplish, toxic plume glowing as everyone in its wake covered their noses and ran. It took a few hours in a furniture store to shake the odor from my olfactory vault.
When I arrived back home, it smelled of coconut, Lysol, Dawn dish soap, and Murphy Oil Soap. I exhaled and my shoulders relaxed for the first time in hours. It was a zen-like feeling to not smell poo. I don’t ask for much, but not smelling poo is high on the list of must-haves. Grace and I were going to be okay without having to sell the house and move.
Some of you might be wondering why I would have a pet that could cause such destruction. When I adopted Grace, I didn’t just adopt her, I fell in love with her much like parents fall in love with a newborn baby. I know some folks don’t see pets that way, but I do. So there is nothing Grace can do to my home, whether intentionally or otherwise, to make me reconsider her place in my life. Adoption is forever. I will love and adore her for as long as she lives, which I wish could be another 30 years. I would buy a new sofa every year for that.
Others might be wondering why I’m sharing this on the blog. Half Fast and Classy is about styling life and home on a shoestring budget, right? Of course! And I love sharing with you my projects, how I get them done, if I cut corners, when they fail, and how I fix them. I’m a glass-half-full kind of girl and am typically happy with the end product even if it’s not spot-on.
But the trouble with blogs is that often you only see the pretty pictures and the end product. You don’t get to see that sometimes my Pinterest-worthy abode (in my biased opinion) is, in this case, covered in fecal vomit. Well now you know, and that’s okay, because we’re all in this sh-t together, right?
The upside is that I ended the day with a fantastic dinner and a large glass of wine with a friend. Plus, with the cash I’ve saved by DIYing, I have a new sofa arriving Tuesday!