The Mysterious Case of the Dog Doo in the Nighttime

Yesterday didn't start out well: A.'s printer self-destructed, the sheep escaped from their pasture by breaking fence, and A. got stung on the ear by a wasp (yes, the EAR--bizarre, and apparently, particularly painful). If I include the middle of the night and technically the next morning as the end of yesterday, then it didn't end well either.

Onward with the story.

Rita the Pitiful Puppy has been staying in the kitchen at night as part of her recuperation process. Rita has not technically been house trained, as she's spent pretty much all her life outside in the pen. So it was with some trepidation that I left her in there on Tuesday night. I meant to get up around 2 a.m. to let her out, but I ended up not getting down there until 5 a.m. And yet, despite her having been in the kitchen for over eight hours, there was no mess at all. She went right outside, did her stuff (with much bonking around in the flower beds with her Elizabethan collar), and came right back inside. I was so proud. And relieved that I didn't have to worry about her.

So last night, into the kitchen again with Rita when we went to bed. This time, I actually got up at 1 a.m. to let her out, feeling virtuous (also feeling like I REALLY did not want to drag myself out of bed at 1 a.m. to let the dog out, but whatever). I was at the top of the stairs when it hit me: the unmistakable, pervasive smell of dog doo. And the fact that I could smell it at the top of the stairs meant that it was not in the kitchen, but rather somewhere else downstairs. The downstairs which is solely carpeted with Oriental rugs. Oh lovely, I thought to myself. This is JUST what I want to deal with right now. But duty* called, and I descended the stairs to meet my fate.

I checked the parlor, the entryway, the living room, and the library on my way through them to the kitchen. Nothing. Then I got to the dining room and flipped on the light. The first thing I saw was the Elizabethan collar on the floor. The next thing I saw was Rita, running out of the adjoining guest bedroom, clearly delighted to have ditched her torture device and even more delighted that someone had arrived to share in her midnight escapade. She wasn't so delighted when I slapped the collar back on her. I figured the damage had already been done (I also figured I did not want to stand around outside with the dog, waiting for another bowel movement), so I just put her in the back hall and resumed my search for the source of The Odor.

Since the culprit had emerged from the guest bedroom, I went in there next. Nothing. But there is an adjoining bathroom . . .

Yes, Rita had taken her dump in the bathroom. Appropriate, no? She didn't make it to the toilet, but she did manage to hit all three (white) rugs on the floor in there. I was so happy that she had soiled something machine washable that I almost went out to thank her. But I didn't. Instead I gingerly bundled up the rugs, tossed them outside to be dealt with in the morning (well, LATER in the morning), and trudged back up to bed.

Sometimes, my life is so glamorous, I can't even stand it.

* I managed to barely restrain myself from writing "doody" there (HAAAA!). You're welcome.

More Pitiful By the Day

Rita the Pitiful Puppy has not had a good week. First, she ate holes into her back. Then I insisted on clipping the fur over those holes and cleaning them, a process she was not happy about. To say nothing of the dreaded Elizabethan collar she's been stuck in since Wednesday. Then those holes got infected, so she had to go to the vet yesterday. Where we discovered that she's very resistant to the quick and easy sedative the vet gave her that was supposed to make her sleep quietly for 10 minutes so the vet could clip and clean her wounds without causing too much pain. Rita went to sleep, all right, but she fought even in her sleep, so that the combined efforts of the vet tech holding her head and me basically sprawled on top of the rest of her barely kept her from flinging herself off the table.

She's a scrappy little thing.

Then she was given something for the pain that made her disinclined to walk, so I had to carry her to and from the car. And THEN, the final indignity: she has to wear clothes when she goes outside. Like some kind of spoiled little purse dog.

This is Stoic Acceptance. It was preceded by Get This Thing OFF OF ME squirming.

Perhaps she objects on sartorial grounds, as the only old t-shirt I could find was one of A.'s, which is way too big and has to be tied in a very 80's little knot at her waist. But the reason for the t-shirt is that flies are outside. Flies lay eggs in wounds. Eggs turn into maggots.

Hmmmm. Humiliating 80's t-shirt or . . . maggots. If Rita could understand the choices, I feel sure even she would go with the t-shirt.

But she doesn't have to like it.

Lambs Gone Wild

The five lambs have been chowing down on their pasture to the extent that they've somewhat exhausted the grass in there. Little piglets. So A. has been letting them out to graze on the property at large. This is fine, to an extent. They have mostly been hanging out on lawns distant from the house, eating forsythia leaves and grass. Except yesterday, the lambs lost their tiny little minds.

I kept finding them on the lawns right next to the house. Next to my laundry, specifically. And you might not know this, but sheep have no bowel control. They just shit wherever they happen to be standing. So if they happen to be standing near the house, that means there will be sheep shit near the house. I drove them away repeatedly (with the help of Rita the No-Longer-Pitiful Puppy, who just LOVES to herd sheep), but they kept coming back.

Then, later in the afternoon, I went outside to discover them standing in the shed. Eating wet newspaper. Really? Newspaper? What the hell is THAT about? Apparently, they forgot they were sheep for a second and instead decided to behave like goats. So I drove them away yet again, and then called A. to come put his crazy lambs away because they were running wild. He came down and found three lambs grazing on the lawn. And the other two back in the shed, munching newspaper.

He managed to tear them away from their tasty snack by dangling corn in their faces and put them all back in their pasture. Where they have been bawling to be let out again (or possibly bawling for corn--all the bawling sounds the same to me) ever since. At full volume. Non-stop.

I'm going to enjoy those lamb chops this year.

Pitiful Puppy

Is there anything more pathetic than a puppy wearing one of those Elizabethan collars?

Pobrecita

Yes, there is: A puppy wearing one of those Elizabethan collars who still tries to play with the other dogs.

P.S. Not to worry. Rita just had some fleas and bit some raw spots into her back. She has to remain under indoor incarceration and collar torture until they heal up some.