*published November 9, 2006
So when our dog, Mikey, got sick this week, it made me sad for a number of reasons. First of all, I hate it when animals are sick because they cannot tell you what’s wrong. But the biggest reason was pure selfishness; I was sad because it was an intestinal illness and it made for plenty of leakage, of the most foul kind.
I discovered the problem on Monday morning, when I found two brown globs on my dining room carpet, shapeless but not odorless. Mikey was at the patio door, wearing that expression that dogs have when they know they did something wrong but their short term memory is too short to remember what it was. Putting Mikey outside, I went to work.
Fortunately, I traded in my gag reflex when I had my son, so I was able to clean things up without too much nausea. I did wish I wasn’t cleaning a carpet at six in the morning, and that Mikey would have aimed for the vinyl in the kitchen instead. After half a roll of paper towels sopped up the preliminary goo, I went to the sink to get the carpet cleaner.
The can was empty. Now I was really sad.
Improvising with Mr. Clean, I scrubbed the rug with lemony fresh cleanser and opened the window to air out the room. Then, I collected the materials and braced myself for the hard part: cleaning the dog.
Mikey is a Corgi, which means he has no tail and a cute little fluffy rear end, but it is very fluffy and not cute when it is, well, not clean. Also, being a dog, he is not bothered by the fact that, on occasion, his bottom requires a HazMat team, so he is never a willing participant in any cleanups. Gathering more paper towels and the leash, I grabbed Mikey and headed for the garden hose. Holding the leash with one hand, I chased his rump around in circles with the other, trying to hose him off. After enough cold water had been sprayed up his derriere, I dried him off with the towels and let him come back into the house.
Four hours later, we did it all again.
This basic pattern has repeated for the past three days, although rump cleanup is now alternating between the hose, the bathtub and wet wipes, and Mikey is beginning to avoid me when I call him. I’m sure he’s wondering what kind of bizarre fetish I’ve developed, since I spend more time wiping his bottom than patting his head.
The carpet accidents are also decreasing, and I bought the largest bottle of carpet cleaner that Albertson’s sold, so I’m prepared for anything.
When all of this began, I thought Mikey’s illness was a reaction to the food he was given at the kennel when he was boarded for the night. Now that we’ve entered our fourth day of Poopfest, I think I may need to call the vet.
After all, household leaks must be repaired.