It's all I think about.
Molly the Dog's poop, that is. I realize that things are likely a bit confusing, since my last few posts have been about my friend, Molly and now I'm writing about my dog, Molly, the one I've never mentioned before, ever.
We just got her. Molly the Dog, that is. She was a Christmas Surprise for the Reds and the end result of much begging on my part and much receiving of favours on Mark's.
What? Oh, like you don't let your ovaries make poorly-thought-out decisions, too. Phfftt. You have kids, don't you? See? Ovaries win.
In any event, she's adorable and I'm utterly smitten with her gorgeous face.
I am not as smitten with her toileting habits and find that I am experiencing a ton of low-level anxiety about it. This is eerily similar to the script that played in my mind during Matthew's first few months of life:
"Is she awake? Should I play with her? Does she need a bone? We really should get home, the dog might be missing us. Did she poop? Is that poop? I smell poop. LUKE, DON'T STEP IN THE...poop."
In the week since she's been ours, I have gone through six rolls of Jumbo paper towel, one and half bottles of "Nature's Miracle" which promised to take the smell and the stain out of my carpets, but hasn't, a pack and a half of pee pads and one pair of slippers. Oh, and Matthew's tennis ball:
|Molly and Matthew, playing kitchen hockey|
I lost a pair of black leather shoes on Day Two, a snuggly grey blanket on Day Four and my mind by Day Seven.
Last week, she shat on the heating vent. It took me half an hour to find the poop because the heating vent is brown.
It's a good thing she's cute because I am becoming "that" person on Facebook - asking for direction from my friends and then cursing when all their advice conflicts and confuses me.
Today, I spoke to a dog trainer on the phone for TWO HOURS. Two hours, alternating between bragging about Miss Molly and threatening to throw her from the nearest window. Thankfully, the trainer talked me out of the latter.
Between Luke, who still wets the bed most nights and Molly, who wets, well, everything, I feel like I am wiping and cleaning and drying things, all of the time.
I know it will pass. This too shall pass. THIS SHIT SHALL PASS.
But the sooner this shit passes OUTSIDE? The happier we'll all be.
|Luke and his Molly.|