Craptastic

There are a small number of chores that fall outside my realm of responsibility. Mowing. Cleaning the garage. Fixing things. Picking up dog poop. All things that I classify as outside maintenance. I am strictly an inside maintenance kind of gal.

People poop = Bring it!
Doggy poop = Hells no.

Just like everything, there are times when the outside maintenance items get thrown into my chore soup. I will occasionally mow our tiny yard or clear off the shelves in the garage. I almost always pull weeds and spread pine straw. And every now and again, I will don the plastic grocery bag of shame and pick up dog shit.

The Husband uses a pooper scooper contraption, an instrument that, despite every effort, I can not get the hang of. I end up mashing turds, or missing the bag, or the bag itself falls off and the turds tumble out in a great pile. So I opt to bag my hand, wrinkle my nose, and get up close and personal with the by products of Shutup Roxy's varied and colorful diet. Polly Pockets, Barbie shoes, crayons, small articles of clothing - the contents of her crap almost make it a game.

Is that a tiny hairbrush? Oh, nope. My Little Pony head!

Usually, it's a once a week chore. During the summer time, when temperatures soar and the backyard becomes a giant, steaming pile of dog logs, the frequency increases. In the winter, when the lawnmower is put away for the season, and we're outside less frequently, and the pudding pops have turned to shitsicles, well- it's easy to forget. The backyard becomes The Shitting Fields.

"Man. I really need to pick up poop." The Husband says.

The next day it rains. Every pooper-picker-upper in the world knows you can't bag black bananas the day after it rains. You have to give it a day to dry out. So, two days later-

"Man. I really, really need to pick up poop."

The next day, of course, it rains.

Shutup Roxy, having run out of room, lays a hogan on the patio.

The forecast calls for rain all weekend and I have reached my turd tolerance limit. This afternoon, I put Henry down for a nap, turned on Spongebob for Julia, double bagged my hand, and braced myself for the cavalcade of crap.

What I encountered was poop in every size, shape, texture and stage of poopness. Some of it, so old it had gone gray and become fossilized. Some of it had what could only be described as a growth. A lone Polly Pocket head gazed up at me, encapsulated in a fudge pocket, only her face and her long, gray hair was visible. Except it wasn't hair. There were some butt nuggets that didn't even look like they had come from Roxy. Maybe she's been inviting the neighborhood dogs over. Hey! Come shit in my yard! No, no, they don't mind! I do it all the time!

In the end, I picked up a bag of full of poop that weighed more than my two youngest children combined. As I placed the bags in the garbage can, something fell from above onto my hand. I looked up, and it started to rain.

Sounds Like...

Shutup Roxy is nearly 12 years old. Since I am at home most of the day, most days, she and I spend a great deal of time together. I have become so in tune with her movements, that I can tell you what she's doing by sound alone.

The other night from the edges of sleep, The Husband says, "What is that sound?" It was a low, rhythmic rub. "Do you have something off balance in the washing machine?"

"No," I sighed, "That's Roxy eating her ass."
"What? No. Do you have a metal pan lid in the top rack of the dishwasher that's getting sprayed funny? Is there trash on the porch? Maybe there's a cat in the trash."
"Nope. Ass eating."

Because he's not as familiar with the sound, he gets up to investigate and finds the dog in the kitchen, happily munching away at her rear.

Shutup Roxy's sounds and movements are as familiar to me as my own.

Leaf-like rustling, then snarfling? She's in the kitchen trash. Hurried click clack of her nails, silence, speedy retreat and snorting? The bathroom door has been left open and she's now eating a wad of toilet paper. Low groan accompanied by a strange squeaking sound? She's dragging her butt across the kitchen floor* trying to release an anal gland.

On the rare occasion that I find myself in the house alone, it is these sounds that keep me company. I find comfort in her stomach grumbles and old man farts, her low snores and heavy sighs as she lies down on her bed. At night she stations herself next to my side of the bed and I am lulled to sleep by the sound of her breathing.

As she gets older, I know the day is coming when her soft sounds will be silent, and the house will be lonelier for their absence. I will miss her when she's gone, I will miss her sounds. Even the ass chewing.

*I originally typed 'kitchen table' and it found it so horrifyingly hilarious that I almost left it.