Good Morning

How are y’all doing today? Remember yesterday when I wrote that long winded post about duality and how different my life could have been and blah blah introspective drivel blah?

Well since then I have learned two things (three, if you include how stabby Adam looks with a goatee)

1. I am fairly certain that Gus can read.

2. He’s a bit of a dick.

Guys, it’s like he read that last post and thought I was getting a little too big for my britches, what with the big city and the gay bar and the glamour photos and the Gosling. So he thought it appropriate to teach me a lesson – especially warranted since I had rudely evicted him from our bed, which (knowing Adam) Gus had probably been allowed to share for the duration of my trip.

In the wee hours of the morning my 170lb dog shat all over our downstairs room. Shat, maybe, is the wrong word. Sprayed? Dribbled? Oozed? Each and every one of these descriptors would suffice.

I am not someone that thinks their dog destroys things because they’re “mad” or pees on things to “get back at them” but you can not convince me that Gus wasn’t trying to send a message.

Guys! I could distinctly see two letters – “F” and “U” crudely scratched into the bits that were sprayed halfway up the wall!

If he had opposable thumbs or more intelligence than a 2 year old, I imagine he would have completed that thought to read:

“Madeleine you can take all the glamour photos you want, but all it takes is one twitch of my sphincter and you’ll spend the morning on your hands and knees cleaning up feces. THIS is your life! AND DON’T YOU FORGET IT.”

Duly noted, Gus. Duly. Noted.

This wasn’t the first time we have woken up to this type of atrocity, when he was a puppy he regularly experienced vicious bouts of diarrhea (I’m sorry, is this too early for me to be writing an entire post about my dogs malfunctioning bowels? Yes? Well this is what’s happening. Do you have the sharp, acidic scent of diarrhea lingering in your nostrils? NO? Well I do. Right now. While writing this post. For YOU. So, mea culpa, but this is happening.)

The tummy upsets continued occurring every few months or so, seemingly without provocation and so Adam and I necessarily evolved a fairly efficient method of cleaning it up, where he would go in the first wave (brave man and strong gag reflex) and take care of most of the…solids, for lack of a better word.

I would come in after for detailing and disinfecting. Like a well-oiled machine. Except a few years ago we finally got Gus allergy tested and discovered that our dog is allergic to dozens of ordinary things. Like pork. And feathers. And birch, sorghum, “fish mix”, oats, cotton, air and sunshine. (Ok not the last two but for for serious Gus, COTTON? FEATHERS? What are we supposed to do with your Big Bird Halloween costume?)

Since getting the results of the allergy test we have switched his food and have stopped giving him bacon as treats and the whole, pooping situation has been pretty good.

Until this morning obviously.

And because it’s been so long, our routine was a little rusty. It took Adam several minutes to muster the strength just to head down to the scene of the crime. His gag reflex was jumpy and from the comfort of our bed I could hear him dry heaving. Kind wife that I am, I yelled “Don’t throw up! You’ll just have to clean that up too!”.

Ah, marriage. I’m HOME!

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