Hi. Are you eating? Don't read this entry if you're eating. Or about to have lunch or dinner. Seriously. Step away from the web site. Step away.
I have decided that I am in advanced training for Motherhood. You know people always say that when you become a parent, you are no longer disgusted by anything that comes out of another human being's body? Riiiiight. Yeah, okay, having pets? In particular, a dog AND a cat? Excellent preparation.
Apparently, it's a well known fact to bi-animal households (who identify as being both canine and feline-positive; tee hee, my psuedo-politically correct speak amuses me. And only me, apparently.) Ahem, anyway, apparently, it's well known that dogs like to eat out of litterboxes. I was not aware of this when I brought young Fred into the house. So, Bella, adorable as she is, has been, uh, pilfering the litterbox, shall we say?
I have been trying to keep the door to the bathroom (where the litterbox is) shut to keep her out, but unfortunately that keeps the cat out, too. They (probably the same people who say that motherhood makes you immune to gross body stuff) say that necessity is the mother of invention, right? So, instead, Fred took a dump in my fruit bowl- my beautiful, Maya Angelou, Life Mosiac Hallmark serving bowl that was a birthday gift from Kelly. Let's just put it this way, I don't think this is what Maya had in mind when she decided to put the quote, "Life is a glorious banquet, a limitless and delicious buffet," on the serving bowl. Sigh…
So I put the bowl in the bathtub under scalding hot water for 20 minutes, scrubbed it down with bleach and, drought be damned, washed it in the dishwasher four times today.
And, oh God, this isn't even the worst part.
You know that commercial for Dial soap where the dog is drinking out of the toilet, the owner comes home and the dog licks the owner's face and the announcer says, "You're not as clean as you think you are." ?
I am not as clean as I think I am.
This morning I woke up, and as I rolled over to check the time, remembering happily that it's my day off, I see that there is a giant pool of dog vomit on the pillow next to my head. (Not the one my head is on, mind you, but the other pillow, which IS next to my head, so it's only a teeny, tiny sliver of comfort.)
So I scream, leap out of bed, and land on my feet on the floor NEXT to my bed, and…. Surprise! You guessed it, I am now standing in a SECOND pile of dog vomit, which- by the way- also covers my hardback copy of Harry Potter 4: Goblet of Fire; yes, the rare "misprint/discrepancy that only appears in the first half of the first edition books" version. (So, H., I know you felt guilty about its spine being broken, etc. And least you didn't barf on it, right? No more feeling guilty!: )
And as I hop on one foot to the bathroom to wash it off, I spy a THIRD pile of dog vomit by the door to the bathroom. At this point, I'm like, screw running for paper towels and Febreze; I want a crucifix! Bella doesn't need a vet; she needs an exorcist! But, of course, the REASON she is throwing up is because she- quite obvious to me as I was cleaning up- was, um, eating out of the litterbox.
So I have spent my day washing and rewashing (and rewashing) all my sheets, duvet and comforter and keeping an eye on the critters. I also went to Home Depot and bought some bricks and cinder blocks- bricks to wedge the bathroom door open just wide enough for Fred, but not Bella, to get through, and a cinderblock on the inside to keep Bella from pushing the door open the rest of the way.
I love them. I do. I am not going to tie them to a guardrail on an entrance ramp to South Dixie Highway with a sign that says "Free 2 Good Home," but I won't say the thought didn't cross my mind. And, I figure, compared to this, it will seem like small potatoes when someday when I have a kid with the flu, right? Of course, Goddess willing, Future Child probably won't be leaving piles of regurgitated cat shit on my pillow, either (shudder).