It’s always the dog’s fault
Yesterday was a long day. A long day, filled with TSA lines and loud kids and turbulence and bad pretzels. But I was OK with that, because at the end of the day I had a very rare Night To Myself. No husband, no kids, just me, the pets, and maybe a John Hughes movie or two.
I got home at the end of this Very Long Day to find that Kekoa (I assume) had an accident. I sighed, blamed my husband for obviously not following proper Kekoa Escort Protocol in the morning, and cleaned it up.
She had peed a massive amount, enough so that the puddle sat there on the floor and worked its way under the couch. After soaking through the second towel and needing to get a third, I was a little concerned for her and her history of potential Cushings. I moved all the furniture around, marveling at the volume.
Once that was cleaned up, I went and grabbed a drink from the fridge and started to walk back towards the TV, and ended up stepping in another puddle. And because I’m apparently a moron, my first reaction was to assume she went and peed again while I went into the kitchen, because the alternative would be that water was seeping up through the floor through the concrete slab, and the thought of that happening on my Night To Myself was really just not OK.
Of course, that is exactly what happened.
Poor Koa.
I hate water leaks.
