The dogs seemed normal enough, waking me from the morning’s unsettled slumber. They pranced around the bedroom, imploring me to get up, their claws making tap dancing sounds on the wood floor.
Silently cursing them for their inability to sleep past 7:30 AM, I set my feet on the floor with every intention of going right back to bed as soon as morning constitutionals were complete. The big one, the greyhound, had shown signs of sickness the day before, evident in the consistency, or lack thereof, of her bowel movements, so it was important that I get them outside quickly, lest her self-control waiver in the face of whatever ailed her. Donning appropriate attire, I led my pups out into the living room and thence to their leashes, overjoyed at the visible lack of “accidents” on my living room floor.
My suspicions were aroused, however, when my girl (the greyhound) showed little interest in relieving herself outside. She is, as the saying goes, as regular as clockwork, and as we wandered up and down the grassy median with no production on her part, I became increasingly agitated, worrying about what I might be facing when we got home.
It was worse than I thought. For whatever reason, the greyhound completely ignored the living room rug in the overnight hours, favoring instead the kitchen rug, which I had not thought to examine before exiting the condo. Upon our return, however, I bore witness to the horror I had overlooked not ten minutes earlier. The kitchen rug sported poop-mines as far as the eye could see. My initial count was seven, but would discover she had been sly enough to hide a couple from view. I would not find those until right around the time I discerned the truth of her condition.
She must have the big “C”; the Rona, I thought to myself . What else could explain the carpet bombing?
I must admit I was not at all sure in my assessment. Can dogs even get the Rona? She and the other one had been on lockdown with me this whole time, spending day after day in the house with only potty trips to break the monotony. So, essentially, their lives hadn’t changed much in the last six weeks. Any exposure to the virus would have occurred when I wasn’t looking. But you never know. There’s so much disinformation on the interweb.
Setting aside epidemiological concerns, I set to work opening windows in order the clear the stench I initially failed to notice and, after making a command decision to not just throw the rug into the trash, got started on the piles themselves. On hands and knees I crawled around the rug, dragging with me a roll of paper towels, a plastic grocery bag, and a bottle of Formula 409. Initially, I felt encouraged by my progress. Despite the mucus-like consistency of the befouling patties, I was able to work rather speedily using a system of light wiping, immediately followed by a heavy spraying. It wasn’t until the sixth or seventh pile had undergone the first phase of cleanup when a flaw in my plan was exposed.
My dog was still (liquid) crapping in the other room.
I didn’t hear the splashy sound of fluid on floor so much as feel it. Clearly, my spidey senses had been activated by what had occurred in the kitchen, and were now looking out for my best interests on an almost unconscious level. Standing and turning toward the living room, I spotted her sleek, runner’s body hunched in an attempt to expel as much coronavirus (I assume) from her body as possible. Aghast, I found myself at an impasse. Do I continue to clean the older, dryer piles of waste or move immediately to the living room mess, which had not yet had enough time to work its way down into the rug fibers?
First things first. I barricaded her into a small, rug-free area of the living room. For those not in the know, barricading a former racer is surprisingly easy. A string taped on both ends, about twelve inches off the ground, will do. Once I believed she was immobilized I went back to work, again making quick work of the mess, even after finding the additional, hidden, piles of goo. She had, apparently, thought to make a game of it. Sort of a quasi, super-smelly Easter Egg hunt for adults. It’s ok, I thought to myself. She’s the victim here.
Finally, when enough of the solid waste had been recovered and disposed, I turned to my trusty, hand-held, carpet cleaner. Oh, Bissell Staineraser, in times like this I have no better friend than you. Spray, spray, spray. Suck, suck, suck. The walls of my humble condo echoed with its rug-cleansing power as, over and over again, I emptied the waste-water and refilled the soap-water with martial regularity, until blot after blot was removed as if it never existed. Everything was going swimmingly. The carpet cleaner was doing its job of, well, carpet cleaning, and my dog was doing her job of laying quietly in a corner of the room. Unfortunately, disaster was not yet finished with me.
I couldn’t blame the carpet cleaner’s battery for dying when it did. I had, after all, likely pushed it further than its recommended factory limit. Nor had the greyhound, or so I believe, chosen to get (what I suspect) was the coronavirus and start shitting all over my carpet again. Indeed, shitting in the most creative way possible. Though confined to an isolated section of hardwood floor, she managed to stand and, turning in just the right way, shimmy her behind in a circular manner until it was positioned over the only section of rug left available to it, promptly cutting loose with whatever she had left to give.
“Damn it, Goshen!” That’s her name. Goshen.
She was unmoved by my frustration, and locked her gaze upon me with an expression that implied something along the lines of “Well, what did you expect?”
While the Bissell charged its battery, I was able to complete only the first two of the three-step cleaning process and, having been forced to wait for machine come back to life, decided to take the dogs out again in the hope she would at least attempt to relieve herself in the grass, where few would notice and none would have to clean. No such luck. Obviously, she was choosing to hold everything in reserve, until comfortably back in the condominium. She did seem to enjoy herself, however, nosing around here and there, at one point unsuccessfully trying to snatch a bird from the air after startling it out of a bush. She failed, luckily, but didn’t seem bothered by the failure, easily moving on to nose an empty potato chip wrapper. It was bound to be another ugly morning.
