Feeling: IN THE DUMPS

Feeling: IN THE DUMPS
  
Every Wednesday evening after work, Henio cavorts off to the water ski club for a slalom followed by a barbie and a beer with his skin chums. And every Wednesday evening, without fail, he returns with a couple of chargrilled sausages for the two Schnauzers. 

Angus and Otto usually have said sausys the following AM in their breakfast bowls, gulping them down with gusto. And the Wednesday just gone proved no different; Henio returned with a handful of snarlers. But this time he forgot to put them in the fridge. 

The following morning Otto – as per – chomped back his chow instantaneously on it being presented before him. I loaded him into Betsy Hay (as in our daily routine, him and I were off to the lake to write – me – and loll about in the beanbag – him). As we were driving along I saw Otto gulping a bit and licking his lips (do dogs have lips? Let’s change that to chops). “Thirsty boy?” I said. Then the infiltrating scent of vomit engulfed my nostrils. 
The poor sod had tried to discreetly up chuck underneath my pink satchel. Luckily I had wet wipes in my glove compartment and dog poo bags on hand, so we pulled over at pace and I cleaned up the chunder (while trying to keep down a few retches myself). When the vomit was scrubbed away we continued – windows all down to eradicate the stench – out to the lake. 

As soon as I opened the door Otto was out, sprinting off to the nearest tree to let his bowels loose. The fountain of faeces flowed out like a relentless turrent. I rung Henio and admonished him. “Poor Otts has the trots,” I said. “I think it was your ruddy, unrefrigerated sausages that turned his tum.” 

For the rest of the day Otto sat subdued in a dark corner of the room (a bit like myself in the throes of a Sunday arvo hangover). He remained so all evening as well, hiding out in my bedroom in the dark and not even lifting his heavy head when I went to check on him. 
(He still downed his dinner with relish, however). 

So this morning I was happy to see him back to his sunny self. I took him for an hour roam around the green belt, happy to see his faecal matter had taken on a more solid form. He’ll be sweet left inside, I thought, as I took off for an hour-or-so meeting. I won’t be too long. 


So it was to my shame that upon returning a good three-point-five hours later (I’d dropped into see a pal and had ended up yarning to him for a significant segment of time) and flouncing up to hug my furry friend, I noticed a dark patch on the carpet. “What’s that Otto?” I asked all joyfully (was having a sensational day). Pretty much shoving my nose into it and flaking a bit off with my thumb nail left me in no doubt: it was Schnauzer shit. 

On closer inspection I saw another two little dumps dotted about the hallway. “Fuck!” I cried, and Otto hopped up in a hurry. That’s when I noticed a little log hanging halfway out his anus, and poos caked into the hair hanging around his hole. 

Have you ever wiped a dog’s perinineal area before? Neither had I before 2pm today. It appears dogs don’t really like having their arses attended to. Especially in a bathtub with a shower head squirting their sphincter. 

I’d hurriedly shot off a txt to dear Deb – “How do you get dog shit off carpet?” – before starting to shower the sickly Schnauzer, and hadn’t checked my phone since. When the home phone sung out I firmly instructed Otto to stay put in the tub and sprinted off to answer what I knew would be Deb and Henio (currently on route to Martinborough) givin me a bell.

“Scrape off what you can then get the rest off with Handy Andy and water,” Henio said. “And go and tie Otto up to a tree and hose him down.” 

“Righto,” I replied, not divulging the fact Otto was currently cavorting about in crap in my parents’ spa bath. “Gotta go.”

But as I hastened back up the hallway I saw Otto taking off to my bedroom (not one for the baths, this one). “You little shit!” I screeched (then had a brief, brief moment to chuckle at my pun). Then I clocked eyes on the poo-ey paw prints on yet another stretch of carpet. “Cripes this is crappy!” (Another momentary titter). 

I managed to pull the poor pup back to the bath (“Yes Dad, I did clean him up outside” I insisted later to Henio) and resume my colonic irrigation of the diarrhoeaed dog. After a good roll of toilet paper his bum was finally cleansed and clear so I picked him up (Cripes he is hella heavy) and dropped him off outside. Then I set scrubbing the stains. 

A good roll of paper towels, a shit covered sponge and a few damp patches in the carpet but we are all cleaned up and no longer shitty. 

Let’s just hope there’s no more crap this weekend. 


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