Puppy Puke
Part I
A week ago we had a "Bell" style family disaster.
Bailey puked.
First, let me say that it was really late on a Friday night, which is the lowest point of my week, and we also just finished doing our taxes. I was exhausted, to put it mildly.
I'm the sort of person who progresses through a few stages of tiredness. First, I get quiet. Then, I get grumpy. If I make it out of the bad tempered stage, I finally make it to the everything no matter how serious or stupid is riotously hilarious stage. That's how tired I was last Friday night.
"I'm going to bed," I announced. It wasn't a question or even a comment; it was a public service announcement thrown out by me to my husband and our dog.
About that time, my husband was letting our dog inside to sleep on her decade-old subzero sleeping bag. She refuses to sleep on anything else. He gave it to her when she was a puppy, and despite the purchase of doggy beds in every imaginable color, size, and texture, it is the only one she will abide.
Just as I turned my back, my husband made a terrible dry heaving sound, huwuwuwuh, and said, "Oh no, Sweetheart! She just threw up!" Sure enough, when I walked over to the utility room, there was a huge pool of puppy puke right in the middle of Bailey's sleeping bag. Meanwhile my husband continued to gag; in fact, once he started to gag, he just couldn't stop.
"Go in the living room," I said trying to urge him away from the scene of the disaster. And yet, he couldn't go away. I realize now he was transfixed in a terrible dilemma. The mess completely undid him, but he wanted to make sure I was going to clean it up properly. He just couldn't walk away.
"See?" He started to rant. "This is why I never want another dog." HUWUWUH! " This is so gross!" HUWUWUH! "I can't stand it!" HUWUWUH! He was heaving over my head while I mopped things up from the floor with paper towels.
"Go in the other room. I've got this!" I said again.
"What are you going to do with it? HUWUWUH! "
I sighed, "I'm going to put it on the porch, give her something else to sleep on, and take her sleeping bag to the laundry mat tomorrow."
He didn't comment, but when I made my way to the linen closet, I found he was already there, gagging and digging through our old blankets. We briefly argued about which one to use. I won't recount it; use your imagination. We settled on an old sheet.
Then before I could make it back across the house to the scene of the accident, he'd already beat me back there. The vision before my eyes was my husband back lit by the utility room light trying desperately to cram a huge, befouled sleeping bag into our washer without touching it. Things weren't going well. His HUWUWUH! 's had increased in frequency and severity.
That's when I lost it. I crossed the threshold of tired grumpiness, and my irritation disappeared, replaced by an irrational, hysterical giddiness. I wanted to laugh, belly laugh, joke in the middle of church when even the dumbest thing is funny laugh. But I couldn't do it. I had to hold it in because the very next thought that occurred to me right after "This is completely absurd and hysterically funny" was "If I laugh right now, we might get a divorce."
So I didn't laugh. Not even when he shot like a baby cheetah around the dinning table to the kitchen trash can and lost his supper, not even when he sprinted from there to the bathroom to lose his biscuits again.
I'm proud to say that I marched right over, unzipped the sleeping bag, and gently arranged it into the washer. I even poured in some detergent and started the thing.
I didn't even chuckle when he came back into the room, eyes watery and red. He said two things.
One --"That was so bad." Two -- "How did you do that?"
I said, "I know. I unzipped it."
A few seconds later, my hands were washed, and I was finally in my bed. I didn't fall asleep, however, because I was too busy laughing with the covers over my head.
About ten minutes later, I heard it again. HUWUWUH! "Sweetheart! She did it again!" He let me handle it this time while he waited from the safety of two rooms away.
All week long, the semi-clean sleeping bag smelled amazingly rancid. I could smell it from the luxury of my reading chair. Nothing like coming home from a long day at work to a house brimming with the odor of spoiled milk.
Part II
I suppose my husband finally lost patience with the rotten dog vomit smell because he took a half day off work on Thursday to take it to the laundry mat. I didn't hear anything about it until I left school and gave him a call. When he answered the phone, I could hear his stress-maxed state in his voice. "I can't even talk right now," he said, "I'll tell you about it when you get home."
When I walked through the door, I saw that his hair was a mess; he'd been rubbing it in agitation. "Where do you want me to start?" he asked.
I shrugged.
Here's what happened.
He put the smelly, old sleeping bag in the largest washer, and mid-way through the cycle the washer stopped; it just died. He tried everything: punched it, kicked it, jiggled the knob -- nothing. He found himself staring into the watery depths of Loch Ness, which incidentally contained our dog's one and only, special sleeping bed. He manned up and got the door open.
Water gushed out all over the linoleum, flooding the whole place. He called the emergency number on the cork board nearby. What did the woman say? "Oh, I'm so sorry, sir. If you'll give me your address I'll mail you a reimbursement check for four dollars."
"How about you call someone to come clean it up, and we'll say we're even," he told her. Then he went to pull the sopping sleeping bag out of the washer. It was in tatters, so he pushed it back into the garbage bag he'd used to transport it to the laundry mat in the first place.
All the way to the dump, he dreaded the idea of telling me and Bailey what had happened to her bed. The rest of his afternoon consisted of going to every store in the area trying to find an exact match for our dog's now dearly departed bed.
He spent eighty dollars on one at Target. (The price alone made me want to have a heart attack.) Thursday night, we both hovered with bated breath when we let Bailey in.
Thankfully after several minutes of consideration, she decided to lay down on it.
We both whooped in triumph, startling her a little bit.
I thew out my arm, "SHHHHH! Don't startle her. She'll throw up again!"
A week ago we had a "Bell" style family disaster.
Bailey puked.
First, let me say that it was really late on a Friday night, which is the lowest point of my week, and we also just finished doing our taxes. I was exhausted, to put it mildly.
I'm the sort of person who progresses through a few stages of tiredness. First, I get quiet. Then, I get grumpy. If I make it out of the bad tempered stage, I finally make it to the everything no matter how serious or stupid is riotously hilarious stage. That's how tired I was last Friday night.
"I'm going to bed," I announced. It wasn't a question or even a comment; it was a public service announcement thrown out by me to my husband and our dog.
About that time, my husband was letting our dog inside to sleep on her decade-old subzero sleeping bag. She refuses to sleep on anything else. He gave it to her when she was a puppy, and despite the purchase of doggy beds in every imaginable color, size, and texture, it is the only one she will abide.
Just as I turned my back, my husband made a terrible dry heaving sound, huwuwuwuh, and said, "Oh no, Sweetheart! She just threw up!" Sure enough, when I walked over to the utility room, there was a huge pool of puppy puke right in the middle of Bailey's sleeping bag. Meanwhile my husband continued to gag; in fact, once he started to gag, he just couldn't stop.
"Go in the living room," I said trying to urge him away from the scene of the disaster. And yet, he couldn't go away. I realize now he was transfixed in a terrible dilemma. The mess completely undid him, but he wanted to make sure I was going to clean it up properly. He just couldn't walk away.
"See?" He started to rant. "This is why I never want another dog." HUWUWUH! " This is so gross!" HUWUWUH! "I can't stand it!" HUWUWUH! He was heaving over my head while I mopped things up from the floor with paper towels.
"Go in the other room. I've got this!" I said again.
"What are you going to do with it? HUWUWUH! "
I sighed, "I'm going to put it on the porch, give her something else to sleep on, and take her sleeping bag to the laundry mat tomorrow."
He didn't comment, but when I made my way to the linen closet, I found he was already there, gagging and digging through our old blankets. We briefly argued about which one to use. I won't recount it; use your imagination. We settled on an old sheet.
Then before I could make it back across the house to the scene of the accident, he'd already beat me back there. The vision before my eyes was my husband back lit by the utility room light trying desperately to cram a huge, befouled sleeping bag into our washer without touching it. Things weren't going well. His HUWUWUH! 's had increased in frequency and severity.
That's when I lost it. I crossed the threshold of tired grumpiness, and my irritation disappeared, replaced by an irrational, hysterical giddiness. I wanted to laugh, belly laugh, joke in the middle of church when even the dumbest thing is funny laugh. But I couldn't do it. I had to hold it in because the very next thought that occurred to me right after "This is completely absurd and hysterically funny" was "If I laugh right now, we might get a divorce."
So I didn't laugh. Not even when he shot like a baby cheetah around the dinning table to the kitchen trash can and lost his supper, not even when he sprinted from there to the bathroom to lose his biscuits again.
I'm proud to say that I marched right over, unzipped the sleeping bag, and gently arranged it into the washer. I even poured in some detergent and started the thing.
I didn't even chuckle when he came back into the room, eyes watery and red. He said two things.
One --"That was so bad." Two -- "How did you do that?"
I said, "I know. I unzipped it."
A few seconds later, my hands were washed, and I was finally in my bed. I didn't fall asleep, however, because I was too busy laughing with the covers over my head.
About ten minutes later, I heard it again. HUWUWUH! "Sweetheart! She did it again!" He let me handle it this time while he waited from the safety of two rooms away.
All week long, the semi-clean sleeping bag smelled amazingly rancid. I could smell it from the luxury of my reading chair. Nothing like coming home from a long day at work to a house brimming with the odor of spoiled milk.
Here she with her beloved old bed.
Part II
I suppose my husband finally lost patience with the rotten dog vomit smell because he took a half day off work on Thursday to take it to the laundry mat. I didn't hear anything about it until I left school and gave him a call. When he answered the phone, I could hear his stress-maxed state in his voice. "I can't even talk right now," he said, "I'll tell you about it when you get home."
When I walked through the door, I saw that his hair was a mess; he'd been rubbing it in agitation. "Where do you want me to start?" he asked.
I shrugged.
Here's what happened.
He put the smelly, old sleeping bag in the largest washer, and mid-way through the cycle the washer stopped; it just died. He tried everything: punched it, kicked it, jiggled the knob -- nothing. He found himself staring into the watery depths of Loch Ness, which incidentally contained our dog's one and only, special sleeping bed. He manned up and got the door open.
Water gushed out all over the linoleum, flooding the whole place. He called the emergency number on the cork board nearby. What did the woman say? "Oh, I'm so sorry, sir. If you'll give me your address I'll mail you a reimbursement check for four dollars."
"How about you call someone to come clean it up, and we'll say we're even," he told her. Then he went to pull the sopping sleeping bag out of the washer. It was in tatters, so he pushed it back into the garbage bag he'd used to transport it to the laundry mat in the first place.
All the way to the dump, he dreaded the idea of telling me and Bailey what had happened to her bed. The rest of his afternoon consisted of going to every store in the area trying to find an exact match for our dog's now dearly departed bed.
He spent eighty dollars on one at Target. (The price alone made me want to have a heart attack.) Thursday night, we both hovered with bated breath when we let Bailey in.
Thankfully after several minutes of consideration, she decided to lay down on it.
We both whooped in triumph, startling her a little bit.
I thew out my arm, "SHHHHH! Don't startle her. She'll throw up again!"
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