The One with the Pooping Dog


Wilson, my mom's dog

No catchy intro. No ironic subline. This blog is about exactly what it says.


So here's the backstory:


Approximately a year and a couple of months ago, my mom got a dog which has been one of actually the best dogs I have ever met. He is a golden doodle, and like her children, my mom essentially beat any resistance to authority out of him.


A rule follwer, this dog is well trained, so much so that he actually sprints to his cage whenever you look at him and say, "crate". This dog even goes to his crate when you turn off the TV, because it makes an audible noise, similar to when my mom desides to turn off the living room TV and go to bed.


This dog is on a SCHEDULE, and he will be damned if that schedule is broken. I recently spent a stint caring for this dog alone, and I can promise you, 7:00 AM sharp, this dog is barking like the yack lady to alert you that it is breakfast time, and he will not be denied.


Okay, now flash forward to Monday night.


I am having one of the most productive days I have had in a long time. The Blues even the Stanley Cup Finals series 2-2. How can I be mad?


Then, around 11:30, I start hearing the barking.


Now mind you, I was in a serious youtube binge on the "Greatest of Grahamn Norton", so I was in no mood to deal with a barking dog. I hadn't caused him to wake up, it wasn't my dog, why should I deal with him being up?


So, after assuming for around an hour and a half that my mom would wake up and deal with it, I finally got tired of my youtube addiction being interrupted by barking, and I made my way upstairs to deal with this dog.


As I arrived in the dark living room, I was feeling a number of things: confusion, as to how my mom, who claims to hear all of my late night snacking binges, was unalert when her most beloved child was barking at the top of his lungs. Frustration that my 4th grade brother hadn't grown up and handled the problem.


But most of all, anger. The balls on this dog to bark up a storm like this at 1:00 in the morning. Well, okay, I can't say balls...... poor guy. But seriously, do you not already fear your mother overlord enough? Do you need to tempt a solid day in the slammer(crate).


Now, if you haven't read my blog before this, let me clue you in: My iPhone camera is not operational, so I was without a flashlight on my phone. I left the lights off in the living room because my moms door was open nearby, and so I thought lights rather than a dog barking would wake her from her death like slumber.


So, I approached the crate in near black out conditions to yell at this dog, when I was greated by an actually familiar smell.


I know right.... I smell poop a lot is what you are thinking.


But alas, before I could even experience that side of his sickness for the evening, I was greeted by his best friend from the attic.


So as I turned on the living room lights, I once again approached the cage to see the whole front area around the cage covered in vomit, mixed in with full chunks of kibble. Ah, that familiar smell I was sensing: kibble.


Kepp in mind, I had already approached the crate once, and I was barefoot. Imagine how interesting this story could've been if I had gotten any closer.


Now realizing that my mom's dog was in legitimate distress, I was stuck in a sort of moral delimma.


Do I walk away, ignoring the vomit and the obvious cry for help, and just wait for my mom to eventually wake up?


Or do I be mature where my brother failed, and handle the problem?


For the first time in my life...... I chose the right answer.


I walked away from the cage to turn off the lights, only to be greeted by a nice loud, "Fuck you", from the cage behind you. I'm reading that verbatum from the transcript actually. I told you, this dog is well trained.


So, I walked back to the crate, picked up my mom's dog, and tried to calm him down. His panicked clawing and whimpering made me fear he would bolt for my mom's room and wake her up.


Little did I know, all he wanted to do was shit on her sheets.


So I finally made the somehow educated decision to take this dog out at 1:15 in the morning, an hour and forty five minutes after initial contact, and boy was it not a moment too soon.


If you are a dog owner, you will especially respond to this visual: standing in the back yard, waiting and watching as your dog does his business.


But for those of us who aren't dog owners personally, let me clue you in on the difficutly of the vision I was seeing, and how it was improved by the secondary sensory input I was receiving.


Unlike, say, 1PM, I was in total darkness. And while this dog is a blonde furred animal and stands out like me on a beach, I would normally be basically watching the chord of the leash move around, waiting to feel a yank as he looks for just the right space in our yard to drop a dump.


Not this time.


When I said secondary sense, were you assuming smell right? Close.


I LISTENED, as seconds after this dog sprinted into the yard, he cleared his system with an explosive number two that could actually be heard across my yard. Might have woken up the neighbors frankly.


And while most dog owners watch and wait for their dog to find the right spot, this dog wasn't worried about the right spot. My waiting was for this nightmare to END, as he marched spot to spot, one after another, fertlizing the entire yard.


Five or so minutes later, I walked back into the house, still facing the enjoyable task of cleaning up this poor guys crate.


I've always felt weird with the whole idea of taking your dog out to the bathroom.


Is it weird to watch? Dogs have feelings too, how would I feel if I had spectators for that event personally? What would it feel like to walk around naked in my back yard?


While most of these feelings are probably normal random thoughts for dog owners, on this night I had a new feeling: sympathy.


We've all been there. The chinese food runs through you before you sit down for movie night on the couch. White Castle starts making new noises in your stomach before you even pulled out of the drive through.


And this poor guy didn't even get the guilty pleasure of eating death in a mini castle shaped box.


So I attempted to clean the cage while he rested and relaxed after this obviously terrible experience. Then he tried to eat it.


And let me tell you, the lazy side of me was pretty ready to let the personal clean up crew take care of that mess.


But, once again, maturity kicked in, along with the knowledge that if this dog ate his own vomit, he would probably be yapping at me again in a few hours to rinse and repeat this moment, a life experience I was non-too thrilled to repeat.


So, I cleaned the cage, gave him some water, and sent him back to bed like a good parent.


But boy.... was that some shit.

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