If my wife isn’t around, I don’t eat. It’s not because she cooks or she makes me eat or anything like that. It’s just that when she’s not around, my routine falls in the shitter. Instead of coming home, cleaning up the house and playing with the baby and cooking and eating as a family, I come home, play with the baby then just kind of lounge around, maybe surf the internet or read or watch tv or play guitar and then, fuck me! It’s nine thirty and I’m eating tuna right out of the can. It’s the truth. Men would just die without women, or you know, live in a messy box and eat olives and mustard and whatever’s just laying around. Unless you’re talking gay guys, in which case you’ll probably want some fennel thrown in there too. And the gay guys probably have a nice leather couch. Whatever. You get it. Anyway…
When we’re all home, we both cook, though lately I’ve been cooking more, which I like. However, after the events of last night and today, I don’t think I’ll ever touch food again. It’s so gross, I just had to pause, due to the grossness. There. I paused again. Come on. Deep breath. Here goes:
Last night, my old lady was working late. After my can of tuna (and small bowl of variously colored cherry tomatoes from the farmers market with some blue cheese) I was deciding on my after dinner, pre bed cocktail. I picked a Jim Beam, splash of soda, rocks. It turned out to be delicious. Not the point. Okay, so I was walking from the kitchen area where the booze is kept, back towards the tv when suddenly my sock kicked something. It was dogshit. But it was odd dogshit. It was fluffy, like it had been whipped or something. It was kind of the consistency of really fluffed, light peanut butter.
Now, these dogs don’t usually shit out of their prescribed zone. They’ll do it now and then when they’re pissed that we’ve been neglecting them, and one of them has to walk when she shits (don’t ask me why or how she came up with this methodology) so sometimes we get a trail from their little dumping ground around the general vicinity, but for the most part, the dogs keep their shit in the area where they’re supposed to shit, which is in the laundry room, on pads. Hey, they’re small dogs. It’s little turds, like cat turds almost. This is precisely why I didn’t see this one last night and kicked it all over the rug and floor and got it all in my sock.
So, I cleaned it up. I was pretty pissed. It was messy, mostly due to the fluffy, smeary, highly unusual consistency. But I got it all clean and settled in to watch some tv. A few minutes go by and suddenly I look up to see one of my dogs (the Business Monkey) barfing. She’s barfing right in the same spot that I had just cleaned. AND she was barfing stuff that looked just like what I had just cleaned up. Oh. Mystery solved and way less gross. That wasn’t a strange fluffy turd, it was strangely congealed barf. When the dog doesn’t feel well she usually comes near either me or my wife to barf, I guess just for moral support. So, anyway, the poor dog is sick. I cleaned up the barf and put her on my lap. She didn’t feel well. I started to fall asleep on the couch and went to bed. SPOILER ALERT: the next paragraph is the gross one.
This morning, I wake up to find, to my abject horror, the reason for the strange barf and sick dog. Apparently, last night, while I was putting the baby down, she (the dog) somehow snuck in the room, got into his diaper pail and ate a bunch of shit out of one of the diapers. So that fluffy peanut butter shit that I kicked wasn’t just shit, but dog-barfed-half-digested-baby-shit.
So yeah. I’ll never eat again, probably. Oh, the dog’s fine today. So’s the baby. Me, not so much.
I’m going out of town in a week, and I’m having trouble getting my shifts covered at work. It’s the kind of thing that I don’t care about at all, and if there weren’t all sorts of assholes looking for jobs everywhere, I’d just tell ‘em to stuff it up their asses and quit and get another crappy job, BUT, I can’t do that because, well I’ve got a baby to feed and a wife to appease and if I don’t put food in front of the baby, he won’t shit, then the dogs won’t eat, and that’s just cruel. Dogs can’t get jobs. It’s a crazy world.
Funny side note. Earlier this week, we were out on the porch just chilling when I noticed the baby about to put something in his mouth. It was a dog turd. I got it out of his hands just fine…but fuck, there’s something going on in this house. There’s really not an abundance of shit just laying everywhere, despite what this little tale would have you believe, but the “under thirty pounds club” that lives here seems to be really looking high and low for the opportunities to eat turds whenever they can get ‘em. The really crazy thing is that the dogs don’t eat their own shit. They’re like shit connoisseurs. Well, gotta be a nerd about something, right?
Whatever, man. Work time. Maybe I’ll get fired. Now THAT’S a song title, Andriano!