Some feel that parenting a child tops the chart of the glamour scales. When else can you parade around with smeary baby poop leakage on your pants or spit up squash on your shoulder and still receive sweet looks from strangers? Top that with two day old pony tail hair and milk leaking from your boobs and you could rock any European runway. Pretty glam folks.
Second on that list- pet ownership.
Why- just this past Saturday morning when I was awakened by a pounding head full of grossness and lungs that felt like they weighed 3000 pounds- I was all up in my pet ownership business. As I struggled to the kitchen to begin brewing my only chance of survival (coffee), I noticed that my super bling dog had apparently needed the facilities in the middle of the night and rather than wake me (he can be so considerate)- he just pooped on the dining room floor. And as I was crawling around gathering it and scrubbing the finish off the floors to ensure it was, in fact, clean, I realized how super hot I must have looked. What with my yoga pant jammies, pony tail hair and swollen eyes from SNOT, crawling around on the floor with a paper towel full of doggie doo. Just like in the celeb magazines ya'll. (By the way- does putting your doggies poop into the toilet count as having an animal toilet trained? Just wondering)
Oh but it doesn't end there. No way.
I head to the living room to numb my sorry head with some TV until my pain pills kick in and my coffee brews and in the darkness I notice 'something' in the middle of the floor. I flick on the light (thank all things good and holy for not just grabbing 'it' in the dark) only to discover that Lewis has apparently gobbled up some kind of leafy something in the yard and gorged himself to the point of puking.
Yay me.
Another opportunity to live the flashy dog ownership life. So there I am- same hot mess of a woman who I described before in the dining room- only now in the living room- this time with scrubbing action on the rug.
My husband (who departed our house for work only a mere few minutes prior to me entering the kitchen) managed to walk past both of these torrential messes, leaving them for me. I am a blessed woman.
Fast forward to Sunday. Yesterday I kept catching a 'smell'. Now my head is completely blocked up- so if I was noticing an actual scent, it means it was POWERFUL because I haven't smelled much of anything since Tuesday. I cleaned the house, cleaned the floors, pulled out furniture to make sure nothing had died somewhere- what on earth is that smell?
Finally- it occurred to me. It was Lewis. He had gone out in the yard and rolled around. In his poop. Again.
As I wrestled our overgrown geriatric poop encrusted beagle into the bathtub at the end of an already long hard day- I found myself considering how glamorous the celebrities make pet ownership look. And I wondered if those folks scrub their own poop out of carpets and fur? Or if they have 'people' for that.
And I tried to envision Paris Hilton running around the neighbors yard at 6am waving a piece of bologna in her bath robe and dress shoes (because that is what was laying closest to the door) trying to tempt her little love muffin back into the house.
I'm off to see if I can find one of those fashionable doggie bags (you know- with the diamond studs and the spot for the dogs head to stick out)- only large enough to encase our 50 pound beagle. I might have to look for one on wheels. But I still will need a lot of bling.
After all- any dog that snores, gasps and growls when awake, throws up water every dag gone day, and howls every time Allyson plays her saxophone deserves all of the gorgeousness that he can get.
L
By the way- seen Toy Story 3? Lewis is a dead ringer for that dog. Only he's much sparklier. And covered in poop.
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