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.