As the years have gone by, my bulldogs have managed to come up with new, sick and twisted ways to blow my mind. Just when I think their antics can’t get anymore nasty and gross, they mind-fuck me all over again.
Warning: This post might make you gag.
I remember the first time I saw Peterbilt vomit up a pair of my panties that had gone missing 5 days prior, re-eat them before I could grab paper towels to pick them up, and vomit them up 3 days later again. The panties were surprisingly still intact, just covered in bile from that 8-day simmer in the crock-pot that is my dog’s stomach. I looked in my husband’s eyes and saw exactly what he was thinking as he held them out to me: “You know…..a good wash in the washing machine could –“. No, Husband. Don’t add to the fucked-up-ness of this whole mess.
When this first happened, I.Could.Not.Believe.It. I almost puked, myself. But when it repeats itself 4-5 times, you become calloused to it and learn to wrestle those nasty things away from him before the re-eat starts. You also learn to put your laundry away immediately.
Prior to this morning, that was the Grossest Thing Ever (GTE) to ever occur in our household.
Then, today happened.
I’m getting ready for work. The morning routine is always the same. I get up around 6:30-ish (ie: 6:59), shower, get dressed and feed/potty the dogs. Peterbilt is used to laying on our bed while I do my makeup and hair in the adjacent bathroom. After I was done, I walked into the bedroom to snuggle with Peter just a short while before going to work. He always lays on my side of the bed, the memories of my husband pinning him to the bed and touching his toe-pads too recent in his mind. I walked around the bed to my side and noticed a wet spot on the sheet, by his booty. Not on the duvet, or on the flat sheet, or on one of the other 8,000 blankets on our bed, but the fitted sheet. You know, the one thin layer of cloth that separates you from the mattress? “Sweet. Baby. Jesus. Please tell me that’s drool and he just changed positions.” There’s only one way to tell: The Sniff Test. Nothing will humble you more than owning dogs.
I unceremoniously kicked Peterbilt off of the bed and bent down and gingerly sniffed the spot. Hmmmm. Nope. Not drool. That liquid most definitely came from his butt. My, that’s pungent! Ladies and Gentleman: Peterbilt has ass-juiced the bed.
I ripped off the fitted sheet shouting “nonononNoNoNONONONO”, wincing with the anticipation that the ungodly fluid has probably seeped through to our mattress. A small, yellow stain appeared on the mattress. OK. Small. I can deal with small. I ran out of the room past a remorseful and embarrassed Peterbilt. I grabbed a bottle of some pet stain remover with a picture cute and probably well-trained French Bulldog on the label. “I bet that dog never ass-juices his owners bed”, I thought to myself. “Why am I stuck with Anal Glands McGee?!?!”
I squirted the cleaner onto the spot and dabbed at it until I felt that it was contained. I threw the fitted sheet in the washer and texted the Hubs to let him know what transpired. I looked at the clock and realized I was running late to work.
Think that’s bad? We’re not done here. There’s more…..
Time to let Mackie out to do his business before I took off to work. I opened the back door and booted Mack out, while I feverishly packed my bag for work. I glanced outside expecting to see the usual scenario: Mackie peeing, his weiner 3″ deep in a snow bank and him looking back at me with a expression that says “Oh, you think you got it rough? My dick’s in snow right now. Merry Christmas”. Instead, I see Mack digging through the snow to dirt, munching away at a mystery something. Face-palm time.
I yelled at Mack to get back inside and once inside, I grabbed a wet paper towel to clean him up. However, I discovered that it wasn’t dirt I was wiping up. It was poop. Mack was eating shit, rabbit turds probably. It was all over his face. Our backyard was a fecal buffet and Mack had seconds. Mack, unlike his son, looked proud rather than embarrassed. Almost defiant, actually. Probably a jab at me for cutting down his food portions as part of his diet.
Mind thoroughly blown, I situated the dogs and ran out of the house as fast as I could before any thing else could possibly happen: Turds raining from the ceiling, blood dripping from the walls, Peterbilt starts a small fire in the family room and dances around it. I don’t know. At this point, there’s no telling what will come next.
I drove to work with a 1,000 yard stare today. Mind-fucked. G.T.E.