Doggie-style battle of the sexes

In the book, Julie and Julia, Julie Powell says this about blogs: "Nowadays anyone with a crap laptop and Internet access can sound their barbaric yawp, whatever it may be. But, the surprise is that for every person who's got something to say, it seems there are at least a few people who are interested. Some of them aren't even related."

I'm counting on this with my next story.

So, a few posts ago, I said I would share my dog feces and urine overload story.

You've all been sitting on pins and needles, I'm sure.

So, last Tuesday evening about 10:30 pm, I am in bed, getting cozied in with my magazine and David Letterman, when I hear a ruckus under the bed. I immediately think, "Where is the dog?" The dog I am referring to is our female toy rat terrier and chihuahua mix, Pia. Only she would be able to fit under there.

Following the ruckus, a pungent, poop smell wafted from down below. Dangit. She pooped under the bed. I leaned down and she had pooped under our king-sized bed, right smack in the middle, so that my arms weren't long enough to reach from any angle. The bed would have to be moved halfway across the room to reach it. Daaaaaaangit. And my husband wasn't home to help move this heavy, wooden, way-too-big-for-our-bedroom bed. DAAAAAAANGIT.

I immediately started whining. I tried to move the bed alone...okay...well...not really...that's a lie...but I did push a little. Okay, that's another lie. But, I knew that if I did try to move it alone, it would be a grunting, fruitless effort, so I waited for my hubs to return from Wal-Mart. He returned, we...ahem....he moved the bed, I mopped, and went to bed with the mild, slowly dissipating smell of Pia's digested dog food in the air.

Fast forward to the next afternoon. I returned home from a long 8-hr day of babysitting my three-yr old nephew, and Pia ran to greet me. The minute I picked her up in the kitchen, she started pissing all over me. All over my shirt, my brand-new leggings, and my feet. I think she pissed her own weight in pee pee. It was never-ending. I had to get in the shower, while my sweet hubs cleaned and mopped up the small swamp on our kitchen floor.

Fast forward to the same evening. I am putting away laundry, walking from room to room. I walk through the kitchen and step in something wet. Assuming it is drool from our bull terrier, Meeko, or water from my husband's dripping hands (he can't seem to use the provided towel hanging from the oven handle after washing his hands, instead shaking them dry and leaving water droplets all over the floor, which I inevitably walk through in my socks on a daily basis), I kept walking. It wasn't until the second or third time I stepped in the water that I realized it wasn't water at all, but splashes of urine, courtesy of Meeko. Being a male dog, he can't NOT pee on top of another dog's scent. After all, he must claim his territory. He must have caught the faint scent of Pia's earlier bladder failure and couldn't resist the opportunity to do the same. Back in the shower I went, out came the mop again. Dangit.

No need to fast forward this time. It was literally minutes later. My hubs and I took our son to the back bathroom for a bath. And what did I see outside the bathroom door, randomly distributed throughout Meeko's bed and the surrounding floor? Pia-sized logs of poop.

Are you freaking kidding me? It was like they were having an excrement war. A foul smelling, doggie-style, battle of the sexes.

Or maybe they are just still pissed about those Christmas outfits we made them wear last year.

Four accidents (or on-purposes) in 24-hours. So, out came the mop again. By the time this 24-hr period came to a stinky close, I had mopped almost the entire house.

Is this the Universe's way of telling me, "Hey down there, you filthy lady ragamuffin. Clean your damn house!" If so, then okay, okay. I get the picture. Be a little less obvious next time.

Geezsch.