Instant Karma

January 4, 2006 at 11:43 am (The Enlightening Ones, WTF)

I should have known I'd be paid back for gloating over someone else's upset. I should have expected it–after all, I'm the one who wound up the target for discussion in group therapy sessions because I believe heartily in the concept. I had the facilitator pissed for three days. She claimed it was arrogant to believe in karma; I held that the believe that "what goes around comes around" was a basic tenet in most religions and believing in karma was no more arrogant than believing that a Supreme Being exists and He/She/It/They are on the side of their true believers. She gave up, so I took that to mean that I won. She wasn't getting much backup from the group, aside from her normal sycophants, so I was likely right.

Anyhow, my adventures in rehab are another blog's worth of posts, so I'll move on to the point for a change.

WARNING: ICK ALERT. If you've got a weak stomach, simply hit "Next Blog" up there in the corner. I purposely did not make graphic descriptions, but some may consider the post below this oversharing.

Ah, good, you stayed. Proceed.

When last you visited, my two dogs had scarfed FAR more fresh meat than I eat in a month in the space of half an hour. Anyone who has dogs can guess how their bodies reacted. The big dog's body was more pissed off than my Beagle's–she managed to hold it all in until time for walkies while Zeke just couldn't swing it. Honey had told me he'd left a little pile outside the bedroom door. I wasn't upset about it, since I expected at least one accident while their fuzzy forms dealt with the meat they'd snarfed down.

I wasn't prepared for my bedroom last night, not even a little bit. I worked in nursing homes for 8 years, and even that training didn't prepare me for the inside of my bedchamber. I don't know of anything that could.

When I walked in to crash last night, I was greeted by what has to be the worst odor I've ever had the misfortune to encounter. I won't describe it–I'm mean, but I'm not that mad at anyone who reads here, so I'll say it was worse than the time Honey turned a room's air green and leave it at that. I quickly located the source of the stench–seems that little pile in the hall wasn't the only one he'd left.

I'm proud of the boy, though. He landed his huge accident squarely in the middle of the sheet Honey threw on the bedroom floor yesterday morning. If I didn't know better I'd swear the dog aimed it there in retribution for the screaming he had to endure (that wasn't his fault), because the little lardass didn't get a single bit on the bedroom floor. That aroma, however, kicked my veteran-poop-remover's ass in no time flat–I had to yell for Honey to come get it out of there between steps in my mad rush for the upstairs bathroom.

Honey's a little slow on the draw for being such a smart guy–I not only had to yell for him to come up, I had to say "NOW, Honey–I (bleh) can't deal (ick) with…oh, shit EW!" While I exiled myself for some meditation in the presence of the Porcelain God, he dealt with his bedsheet. Surprisingly enough, he didn't yell at the dog, me or anyone else–he just sucked it up and bundled the offending mess for transport downstairs.

Once I'd blasted an ounce of room spray around my bedroom, it was habitable again (no exaggeration–I was using one Melissa made for me last Christmas and I could see in the clear bottle how much I went thru trying to kill the stink), but just barely. I must have checked the floor half a dozen times to assure myself I didn't have stealth shit anywhere else in there.

This morning, Honey had the upstairs bathroom occupied, so I headed downstairs for my morning ablutions. As I took care of this and that, I noticed a garbage bag perched on top of the dirty clothes hamper. Huh? Not another lesson to write about, is it? Surely these people can take a bag of…wait, I know what it is.

That's right–Honey just shoved the crappy sheet into a trash bag and pulled the drawstring tight rather than deal with the mess. As much as I hate admitting that I just can't do something, I was forced to admit that Zeke's poo kicked my ass. Having said that, I don't feel one bit bad about having informed Honey that all present and future doggie accidents are now his problem. I've cleaned up after these dogs since the first time their terrified little asses soiled the beige shag rug at the old house–it's his turn.

After all, what goes around, comes around.


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