Don't be fooled by those sweet puppies to your left. If you're a little squeamish about bodily fluids, I want to give you fair warning to click now, and get the heck out of this blog. It's gonna get gross in here.
Ok, this one's for the die hards.
When I married the man, we were very clear about what was and wasn't in the contract. He really wanted me to manage the food - cooking, reservations, whatever - but he didn't want to have to be in charge. Ok, it's a little retro, but I can handle that. I'm a control freak, I love to cook, this works. I can't stand poop - more specifically, dog poop - so I stipulated that I would never be required to pick up after the 4 dogs and 3 puppies he brought into the marriage, or any subsequent animals. Fine, says he, no biggie, he's got the poop under contol.
So this morning when I went down to our basement to take out the dogs, three, yes three, of them had pooped in their crates. Now I want you to imagine the disgust of this. There is a slight telltale scent when I start down the basement steps. It gets stronger as I walk through the nice big room to the unfinished crate room. But then, when I open the door, the stench of that bad boy slaps me in the face and nearly knocks me out with its evil power. It was clinging and noxious.
There, standing up in their new crates, are three of our four puppies. Each is covered in wet diarrhea. So what's my job? I have to reach in and encourage each puppy individually out of the crate, pray that he/she doesn't jump on me in greeting (fruitless) and then help said puppy up the stairs and out of the basement door to the backyard. So without actually cleaning up any of poop, I am already deep into it.
I'm sorry, I know this is really gross, but can you feel the complete and total yuck I'm having here? I'm not going to give you any more details because I hope you are feeling my pain by now. Suffice it to say that when I was done, I needed new clothes and a shower.
So what did I do after taking these remarkably dirty dogs out? I cleaned out their crates and then mopped the floor. Got on my knees and reached into the grossness to make sure it was really clean in each crate. Got dog poop under my fingernails because I forgot my rubber gloves. Dude, this is so not in my contract.
But this morning I didn't have it in me to hold the man to our quaint little contract. The mess was making me retch, and it was relatively fresh. It would be so mean to make him clean it up later, when he gets home from work.
And to me, the events of the morning are like a tiny window into the work of my marriage. This time it was me who had to do what I was never supposed to do, what I never agreed to, but that was just chance. Could have been him. Next time probably will be.
