My woman is coughing her fool head off. She wakes The Dogs.
Now, this wouldn’t be a problem if SHE took them outside to go poop. But she doesn’t. She sleeps on the OTHER side of the bed. You folks who use that argument amaze me. I mean, how do I let that work? I’m educated. I went to college. Have some Master’s work. But somehow I can’t come up with a rebuttal for, “But, you’re closer.”
Apparently, I’m not lawyer material.
It’s 20 degrees outside and they have to poop. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that big of a deal. I just have to walk to the back door to let them out. But it’s so cold. Oh, and I don’t want to. It’s 1:22AM.
But I do it anyway...because I'm CLOSER.
Trace has something to say. She was raised a Search and Rescue dog, so she has her ways of saying, “Really, you need to see this.”
I assume she wants to show me the back door in hopes that I’ll open it.
As I turn the corner into the kitchen, she looks at me with that, “SEE!” look.
Poop. EVERYWHERE. All over the kitchen floor. Hard. Dry. A major dump.
THIS is not my job. I’m in charge of everything but poop. It makes me squeamish. It’s the reason that I don’t have children and must have a girlfriend or understanding neighbor close by. I just can’t do it.
But tonight I have to. My girl’s been sick in bed since Saturday night. Not like her at all. She’s so sick she’s not even made it to the couch for the TV marathon that lets most of us know that we’re on the mend.
I throw something on just in case Leighann’s peeking again. Isaac Wayne sits in the doorway of the kitchen with the “ Ima so sorry. I wish I could help” look.
He watches over me as I finish and walks me back to bed. Like he always does. He never goes to bed without me. If I’m up, he’s up.
I just hope in my next life that I come back as one of their dogs. Big, fluffy beds. Belly rubs. And somebody to love me even when I poop in the floor.