This morning there was a hole in Miles' poop bag. I'm just gonna let that sink in for a minute, let the ramifications of such shake out like a snow globe into perfect clarity.
What I'm trying to say is that whilst picking up after my dog, grabbing aggressively so as not to leave any trace of his butt leavings on our neighbor's sidewalk, there was an unforeseen tear and my right forefinger came in contact with fecal matter the consistency of peanut butter.
Yes, I screamed.
Totally unfazed, my 19-pound Pug pranced off to the next bush all the more perfect to piss on while I was left gagging and dry-heaving with a finger that, according to Emily, said, "Not tonight, honey." Call it Karma (but don't call it bad Karma because that's redundant).
Anyway, with three more blocks till home, I was disgusted with life in general. Miles, of course, was peachy. I try not to take things out on him even when they're sorta kinda his fault, a practice of patience that makes it less stupid when people suggest that "before you get a kid, get a dog."
Like when he's left little penis stains on a shirt I was planning to wear that he just had to lay on because it was on the floor, or when he bit a huge rip in a trash bag loaded with moldy spaghetti because obviously the smell was intoxicating. Instead of yelling, I find my center and usually a mop.
But not this time. Not with butt barf all on the finger I use to do stuff with. So when we got home, I stomped to the bathroom and slammed the door, vigorously rubbing three types of soap (dishwashing, fancy and laundry) into my hands.
It wasn't long before I heard the familiar whimper at the door. Miles HATES it when I'm in the bathroom alone. If I don't let him watch me pee (because that's all I do in there) then he thinks I've abandoned him to life alone out in the living room for a gut-wrenching commercial break. He can't stand it.
So, of course, I let him in.
I don't know what it is about dog owner/dog time in the toilet but in our house it trumps the dog park and it's somehow the opposite of weird. He watches and I wee. Or I wash my face, put on my makeup, blow my nose, whatever.
The bathroom is the only room he can't stand to not be a part of. I'm typing this from our office/storage/guestroom while Miles is chilling on his mound of blankets next to the TV in the living room totally sated. But if I make a move for the bathroom, I'll hear the tap tap tap of his nails against the hardwood before I can get my pants down (OK, fine I don't have pants on, but you get the picture).
At first, I thought I was engendering this behavior, having grown up in a totally naked house and being therefore quite boundary-less.
"Close the friggin' door!" is a familiar exclamation I've heard from roomies to lovers.
Other pet owners, though, have told me that their dogs practically live in the poop shack. They're mini voyeurs.
One guy told me, "Mister Tibbs would hop into the shower with me if I let him." All you need is one "yes" to make something a trend so I'm rolling with it. Now if only I could teach Miles to pass the toilet paper, we'd be good to go. Or is that too much?