I’ve thought twice about sharing this, but then I thought “sharing is caring” – also, I’m enjoying traumatizing teens with this story and I’ve run out of teens.
Be warned – there’s poop talk ahead. Terrible, traumatizing poop talk. Stop now if you’re eating. Continue if poop talk doesn’t phase you.
This is how I told the boys…
“I have to go get Tiny from the vet.”
Boy – “Uh oh, what did she do?”
Me – “It wasn’t so much what she did, but what she didn’t do.”
Boy – “What didn’t she do?”
Me – “Poop.”
Okay, it wasn’t even so much that she didn’t poop. It’s that she tried to poop, hit this point, then could poop no more.
Because this is my life, I stood out under the eaves of the house as it rained, watching this little dog scurry all over underneath the bushes, having to poop, not wanting to be in the rain, not wanting to poop, dragging her sorry butt through the leaves and pine needles under the bushes…but then she seemed to perk up and walk normally to me. Great! She pooped! We can now go on with our lives.
Except, and once again, because this is my life, I lift the little dog and do a backside check, to make sure she pooped cleanly. It appeared she hadn’t.
I wasn’t in the mood to bathe the little dog, but what can you do except throw her in the tub?
As I was hosing her off, the full horrible truth came to light. It wasn’t that she had a bit of poop stuck in her fur.
Imagine it – me, in a bathroom, a lovely clean bathroom with its white ruffley shower curtain, the pale yellow and aqua blue towels – and this wet, leafy little dog with poop hanging out her bum.
In my head I was screaming “OMG, what do I do? There is NOTHING in my life that has prepared me for this moment! Why do these things happen when I have no one to call! Who do you even call in this moment?”
After a couple of deep breaths, I pulled out my phone and went to the Yelp app. There’s a vet nearby that someone mentioned was good – they had five star ratings. Good enough.
Then there was the phone call..
“Hello, Vet’s office!”
“Yeah, um, we just moved here, and I have a problem with my tiny dog.”
“Oh no, how can we help?”
“Well, she tried to poop and couldn’t finish and now its stuck, and I thought it was just on her fur, so I tried washing her, so now she’s wet and poopy…”
They’ve heard it all, right?
The nice girl on the phone told me the vet was on another call, but they’d call me right back, giving me enough time to at least blow dry the now shivering tiny dog, and pluck some of the leaves out of her fur. The vet office called back and said we could come right in if we got there in the next ten minutes.
Great! I now have exactly 35 minutes until Maura arrives on the bus. I can do this!
I wrapped tiny dog in a towel, stick her in a crate (not a dog crate…no…that would make sense – her little tiny dog crate was up too high in the garage to get, but there was a milk crate. Yeah, that’ll do.)
I go out, put tiny dog in crate in the car, buckle myself in, turn on car, turn on wipers…and watch as one wiper blade goes flinging off its hinge.
Because this is MY life.
And it wasn’t the little rubber part. No. The whole dang arm came off that sucker.
I stood in the rain, trying to fix it, realizing I’m too short to reach it properly, as SUV’s aren’t really designed for short women, considering whether or not to burst into tears over the fact that I have this tiny dog who can’t poop, a busted windshield wiper, my window of opportunity narrowing and no one to call in this particular predicament. I decided not to because, you know, me sobbing and cursing in the driveway wouldn’t make the best impression on my new neighbors.
Instead, I persevered, rigged the wiper to work, and got to the vet, where I know I made an impression. Sadly, that impression was of a hysterical, slightly wet and frumpy woman who never grooms her poor tiny dog. I explained how the dog was wet because I tried to bathe her, leafy because she went under the bushes, she’s usually not this much of a mess, I swear…and oh, I have to dump and run because I have to get my daughter off the bus, can I come back for the puppy after she gets her enema?
Yes, I made quite the impression.
Now, the tiny dog is just fine, being her normal tiny self again. I’m the one with lingering trauma. Which I have to share. The kids were so thrilled. I’m sure you are too now.
But really, there is nothing that prepares you for a moment like I experienced in that bathroom at 11:20 this am.