Waiting for the Other Poo to Drop

Jess and I don't own a pet. Being selfish is just too rewarding. But we do like animals, and with a dog park just across the street, we make pretty good dog-sitters. Jess' folks decided to stay in Florida through Easter, so we had their French Bulldog, Oliver, for the weekend.

Let me say from the outset, you haven't really lived until you've wiped a dog's ass! One morning in the dog park, Oliver got a little excited and started running off, mid-shit. I had one plastic bag, a steaming mound on the ground, and a shitty-assed dog that had to be carried up three flights of stairs he couldn't climb himself. I had to get a little creative. I cleaned Oliver up the best I could, my hand sheathed in the plastic bag, then used the same bag to pick up his detritus. I took the pup in my arms and went back inside.

Once inside, I could see that Oliver still needed a little clean-up, so I put him down long enough to get a warm, moist cloth. What I didn't realize was our bedroom door was only pushed-to and not latched. Imbued with that profound satisfaction one gets from a good crap, Oliver jumped into bed with half-asleep Jess who eagerly took the dog in his arms and under the covers.

I had always thought I wouldn't be cleaning shit out of the bed until at least my 60's.