Minor Crises For Everyone
I was expecting a simple day. I had to run downtown for a piece of identification that I needed to get into a client’s network. I got an early start. I was going to waltz downtown, do my little dance of “yes, I’m really me and yes I really am authorized to get this” and waltz back out.
An hour tops.
Well, one thing led to another and by the time I was back on the Metro train, it was 40 minutes before I had to meet the child at her bus stop. If I’m not there, the child is not allowed to get off the bus and is dragged around the rest of the route to be eventually returned to school.
The child naturally assumes that if I’m not at the bus stop I’m dead and goes into hysterics that can only be cured by the magic of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia frozen yogurt.
I have chased the stupid bus more than once trying to retrieve her.
Anyway, I got hold of the school and somebody got her off the bus and sat her in the office. Apparently no one thought to tell her I was stuck on Metro (even though I went to some trouble to tell the school). The child was already tearing up when I got there.
“I’m glad you aren’t dead, Mommy.”
“Honestly, child, I am just too busy to be dead today.”
She looked at my curiously. “Does it really work that way?”
I shrugged. There was one more little disaster on the horizon. The dog (still a puppy) had been stuck inside for 7 hours. He was loose in the house and had probably chewed through the furniture by this time.
“We have bigger worries, sweetheart. The dog.”
She nodded knowingly, putting on a determined face, and pulled her backpack higher up on her shoulders.
“OK, Mommy. Let’s do this.”
We burst into the front door. “Ewww, Mommy! What’s that smell?”
“Dog poop, dear. Lots and lots of dog poop.”
“I’ll… Umm… Wait out here,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“Chicken,” I mumbled under my breath.
“What, Mommy?”
“Nothing, dear.”
I checked the living room — all of the corners. Nothing. Kitchen? Dining room? Nope. Hallway? No. Bedroom? No. The smell was pervasive, but I just couldn’t find the spot.
Come to think of it, I couldn’t find the dog, either.
I called for him. Nothing. What’s going on? The doors were as I left them… I checked every room he had access to. I started checking the rooms he didn’t have access to. Still no dog. Still no poop. Our house is fairly small and just not that complicated. There is no reason for me to lose a whole dog. I called for him again and heard a distant jingling of dog tags.
I called again down the hallway and heard another tiny jingle. I turned. “I don’t remember closing the bathroom door.”
I opened the door and was hit with a wall of dog-poop stench and 50 pounds of deeply embarrassed dog. He slunk past me, his tail between his legs, and sat at the back door looking as pitiful as a creature can look.
I patted his head and said some kind words. Then I let him out, and wondered at what point during the day he locked himself in the bathroom. I gently folded up the almost-new fluffy bathmat with the mountain of poop on it, bagged it, and took it outside.
“Did you find the poop?” asked the child, sitting primly on the from steps and torturing ants.
I held up the bag.
She rolled her eyes. “Finally.” She went in the house and popped her head back out a minute later.
“It still stinks in here. Where’s the dog?”
“Well, open a window. He’s in the back yard.”
The house took about 20 minutes to air out. The dog didn’t come in for an hour hasn’t been in the bathroom since.
