Thursday, October 09, 2008

Note to Self: Do Not Mock the Universe

Yesterday, right after hitting "publish" on my pensive little musings on what message the universe might be trying to send me, I logged off my computer and walked into my hallway.

Where I found another message.

Ya'll? Tallulah, my four-month-old Westie, actually sh!t Stonehenge in my very own hallway.

Oh, don't get me wrong, it wasn't to scale or anything. It was, in fact, a very small approximation of Stonehenge. But it was Stonehenge nevertheless. One little turd surrounded by a perfectly spaced semi-circle of six other little turds, on some of which of she'd actually managed, with a jaunty finishing swirl, the look of that cross ways stone on the top.

Don't page down or anything. I didn't get the money shot with the camera. Because while standing there contemplating The Miracle and wondering whether to call the Pope or E-Bay, or Ripley's Believe it or Not, or The Discovery Channel, or, heck, just my Mom, the smell hit me.

Stonehenge brought tears to my eyes. And I'm not talking about in an awesome Stonhenge-ish sort of way.

It was only then that I glanced around and noticed my little darling had made a few, shall we say "practice runs" before commencing to bring forth The Miracle that sprung from her ass. From the looks of things, it had taken three or four (over sized) practice pipings before she got the hang of it for real. These turds were the sad, smeary, mis-shapen prototypes of what clearly later became the final more streamlined version, which was, ultimately, perfectly sited and spaced and located just a few short feet away from the practice arena.

And if you're at this point wondering just how big my hallway is, let me enlighten you: not very. It is a small (windowless) hallway and not the sort of space that that can easily accommodate a pound of extremely toxic poop (one-seventh of the puppy's total body weight if you're counting) whether in the form of an ancient ruin or not.

So, nope. No camera. Color me cynical, but by this point? Getting the sh!t outta my hallway was kinda priority numero uno.

FurGirl, apparently foreseeing the show, had positioned herself as far away from The Miracle as possible while still having a vantage point from which to enjoy the action. She was at the front door, her own ass pressed against it. Every time I looked over at her she winced as if to say,

"Damn, woman do you SMELL THAT?! Don't just stand there, get out the PET FEBREEZE, I'm DYIN'!".

I can only imagine what effect this nuclear assault of stench was having on her sensitive canine nose. I guess in the end you'd have to note that it wasn't bad enough to force her away from her post. This, if I had to guess, is not as much a testament to her sense of smell as it is her desire to see Tallulah finally get what's coming to her.

Tallulah, herself, was nowhere in evidence.

I guess she figured her work spoke for itself.

I began the clean-up by covering my nose and mouth with a dishcloth and securing it in the back with a clothespin. I covered my hands with Ziploc bags, then set about scooping up the practice arena cast-offs within wads of toilet tissue.

By the time I worked my way to The Miracle, I'd gained a new appreciation for how quickly Tallulah seemed to have perfected her craft. As I scooped up the tiny, perfectly spaced monoliths, I began to think I actually might not kill her.

Rather, I began to wonder (in my sexy, sexy garb) how had she spaced these out so perfectly? I tried to imagine her, her tiny white brow furrowed in concentration carefully counting out, what, maybe two paw lengths and then working up more material? And, anyway, had she produced the tiny monoliths whilst staring straight ahead and working, ahem, by feel? Did she lift a leg and sight the things from underneath? WTF?

By the time the job was finished and I was stripping off my Ziplocks, it occurred to me: What if she sh!ts the Sphinx next week?

We'd...we'd...why...we'd take it on the road, of course! We'd be RICH!

This is how Talullah survived the day and is, at this very moment, enjoying a high-dollar Eukanuba Dig Biscuit.

And this is also why, now, a full twelve hours later, FurGirl is all "talk to the paw" and still refuses to speak to me.

1 comment:

Brenda said...

Ha ha ha...I doubt that even Patience's dogs can top THAT!