Warning: If you’re currently consuming food, stop. If you’ve ever liked food, stop. If you plan to like food in the future, proceed with caution. Things are about to get… biological.
It began innocently. As horror always does.
I’d spent weeks trying to coax our favorite Mauzer, Reiko, back into the noble art of wearing a harness and leash like a regular suburban canine instead of an unhinged woodland beast. We tried calming meds, persuasive cooing, interpretive dance. Nothing worked. I decided to avoid traumatizing her so I gave up.
Then today happened.
My little fur tornado decided to combine the will to flee with a sudden and violent case of rear-end rebellion. Yup, explosive diarrhea. Was it the calming meds? Was it a karmic reckoning for feeding her too much Cesar? We’ll never know. But what I do know is that a small, greased-up dog running at Mach 4 while spewing something that could peel paint is… a lot. Gag a maggot level stuff.
She ran like she was qualifying for the Daytona 500, only with turbo-diarrhea jets. It hit walls. It hit furniture. It hit art. Carpet bombed. The entire house. I’m fairly certain it violated several Geneva conventions.
My first instinct was to open a portal to another dimension and shove us both through it. My second instinct: containment.
I built a cattle-chute system out of 15 Amazon boxes like some tragic, panicked cardboard engineer. She was the errant cow; I was the weeping rancher. Using a beach towel like a makeshift riot shield, I herded the devil-goat-dog into the kitchen and sealed the perimeter. Finally on tile floors.
Victory was mine. Briefly.
The next chute funneled her into her crate, which by then looked like a war crime. Now came the challenge of removing the feral stink-bomb from said crate and launching her into a sink bath while not losing a limb or my will to live. So naturally, I donned welding gloves, because what else do you wear for a tactical feces extraction?
She went full demon. Hissing. Howling. Throwing shade. I think she tried to curse me in Old Norse.
Still, into the sink she went. Water exploded. The counters got baptized. The Keurig may never recover. I scrubbed her so thoroughly the shampoo bottle filed for workplace harassment.
Then came the harness. Ever tried to hook a harness onto a greased, traumatized pooch that’s actively debating your assassination? Try it one-handed. With gloves. On a slippery counter. In the aftermath of a poopnado.
By some divine glitch in the Matrix, I managed it.
The dog was clean. The harness was on. The leash was attached. The smell was… still present, but now it had notes of despair, Lysol and “Apple Cinnamon Febreze,” which should honestly be illegal.
She bolted under the dining room table and is currently giving me the side-eye from her shame-nest. I, meanwhile, have spent the last two hours laundering, mopping, renting a carpet cleaner, scrubbing, disinfecting, and reevaluating every life decision I’ve ever made, including owning a dog and being born.
I will not be eating dinner tonight. Or possibly ever again.
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