The thing about living with a dog is, they tend to behave in a very predictable manner. So when bad things happen, you can usually trace it back to an error on your part, and/or follow the trajectory of all the future things that will arise from it.
Case in point: Koa has now realized that when she is left alone for more than two minutes, the best way to assuage her anxiety is to lock herself in the pantry and eat away her stress. This has happened three times in as many weeks.
It’s entirely my fault, for making the fatal error of forgetting to close the pantry door before departure. And the price is paid dearly.
So when I arrived home the night before last to find my husband stalking the house resembling nothing so much as Jack Torrance in the Shining (Jack Nicholson version, of course) I figured something was up.
I had pre-emptively removed anything chocolate or scary from the bottom levels, but it was still a scene, nonetheless. Apparently the dog likes fruit snacks, by the way. And flatbread.
The next morning, as one might predict, Koa was beginning to feel the tingles of digestive upset. I sighed. Probability I might need to clean something up later: high.
Which leads to my nausea inducing arrival home with the kids to find the unsurprising pool of diarrhea on the area rug. Of course on the area rug, because if a dog is going to go, they are going to go on the only carpeting in the house.
The last time this happened (the infamous Jimmy Poo incident) I discovered to my great displeasure that we were out of paper towels. You NEVER want to be out of paper towels in a situation like this. At least this time, I was prepared. And there were no Italian shoes involved.
The Rug Doctor, which is fast becoming indispensable in the house, has been moved from the garage to the laundry room, because I am a pessimist and I know I will be using it often. Which I did.
Now when you empty out said Rug Doctor bucket of grossness, one might think a reasonable thing to do is dump it in the toilet, but I was not in my right state of mind, and I emptied it in the bathroom sink. I don’t know if you’ve seen a Rug Doctor in action, but that thing has more horsepower than a Boeing engine. So in addition to whatever “impurities” you are expunging, you also get about 50 pounds of dog hair that you had no idea were even there in the first place.
I realized this fatal error about two seconds after emptying the reservoir, and realizing I now had a stopped up sink comprised of effluvia of the worst possible kind.
Word to the wise: in the world of predictable needs, add Drano and rubber gloves to the list. They come in handy. Oh, and bleach. I mean, if anyone had a right to be skulking around the house muttering “Redrum”, it’s me- I’d take an overturned trash can over that any day. But I digress.
Now I was starting to wise up to the sad reality of my afternoon and decided, in the spirit of expecting the worst, to just leave the Rug Doctor in the living room as opposed to emptying it out and putting it away. After all, I know how long Flagyl takes to kick in, and we weren’t there yet.
See? I get statistics. Probability Koa was not yet done? 100%.
Sure enough, when I took the kids to gymnastics, she went back to the scene of the crime and added insult to injury, on the rug I had just cleaned. But I am a primate, one capable of learning from mistakes, so when we came back home to more mess, I was less annoyed than simply resigned to my fate. And this time I didn’t clog up the sink.
Now, I noticed in that scene of fruit snack carnage a disproportionate lack of wrappers. The wrappers were nowhere in that pile on the rug, either. Which leads me to the prediction for tomorrow: the pile of vomited wrappers that will greet me in the morning.
Rug Doctor is staying in the living room until further notice.
This is life with a dog, I suppose. Viva le chien!