That was a $1200 genuine imitation Persian rug you decided to use as a fecal canvas. Having spent the entire evening at a Landscaping Show where the air was thick with the delightful aroma of fresh flowers, returning home to your stanky mud puddles provided quite the olfactory contrast.
I won’t even bother to ask why you chose the rug as your target of choice rather than the dozens of square feet of available bare tile and hardwood flooring because you’ll just stare at me wondering why I’m staring back at you talking gibberish.
Based on the stench and consistency, I can only assume you got sick eating one of two things:
1. Something dead.
2. Something deader.
Remember the time you and Riley escaped the backyard and feasted on dead skunk carcass in the middle of Route 41? Do you remember the bloating, the noxious fumes, and the expelled gray matter you endured the rest of the week?
No? Of course not. Because you possess the long-term memory of an amnesiac and the short-term memory of a fruit fly. I know this because while I was cleaning up your various liquid deposits, you stared at me with a “whoa, what happened here?” look on your face.
Well, I’ll tell you what happened here. Because you felt it necessary to shizzle where you lay, we had to push your slimy soggy doggy stench into harvestable pools and then soak our rug in industrial carpet cleaning chemicals in a bold attempt to salvage it.
Oh, and before you ask, the reason we barricaded you in the kitchen was because we were hoping to restrict any further mess to our tile, which is far easier to clean. While not as convenient for a dog hellbent on destroying as much property as possible in its lifetime, it is infinitely more convenient for the witless providers who put forth the time, money, and effort to care for you.
It’s not like the barricade did any good because, as you probably don’t remember, you rammed your way through the logjam of chairs and boxes in order to spritz our rug like a sickened Grizzly bear for a repeat performance.
It was wonderful to be awakened at 6:30am on a Saturday with, “Dad, do you remember what Jackson did last night on the carpet? Well, he did even more this time.”
Just as we can’t figure out why the cats prefer to ralph on carpeting, shoes, and unwashable fabrics, we can’t understand why you felt it necessary to emblazon our rug with several overnight rounds of diarrhea. Do you have a problem with tile? Is it unworthy of a squat? Not lavish enough for what escapes your rear end?
I can deal with a scoopable pile of well-formed uh-oh’s. What I can’t deal with is a complete and total blowout that disperses liquefied nastiness all around our dining room. You don’t crap where you eat, so why do it where we eat? Is this some sort of message? Some sick twisted strategy for change that you dreamed up while unabashedly licking your nuggets in front of the children?
Cleaning something so foul-smelling that had the consistency of rotted swill was bad enough. But discovering cast-off splatter on the curtains and walls like some CSI forensics team was downright horrible. The next time you’re about to experience a rectal explosion, I’d appreciate it if you’d rear up to the cats. At least they are capable of cleaning themselves. Something our rugs can’t do.
You were already on thin ice after chewing our new dining room chairs into splinters and then puking what looked like scrambled egg batter on yet another ex-rug. So consider yourself warned. The next time? You’ll be the new rug.
The Hand that Feeds You
P.S. I also wanted to thank you for the log pile of cat turds we found on the upstairs landing last night. Apparently, your repeated actions of crapping on our rugs without consequence gave these felines the impression that this was the new household policy.
Perhaps I’ll erect a sign on our front door in your honor.
It’ll read: “Welcome to our home. Crap where ye may!”