growing in the goo

I've received comments such as "Geez, you're not even working, can't you blog?"

The truth is, I've been ridiculously busy. Until today I hadn't even watched .5 hours of daytime TV. Tragic.

My parents' puppy is adorable...his name is Seamus and he's a Wheaten Terrier. For the past few months I've been hearing stories of how he's an incorrigible crapper, deliberately dropping "deposits" whenever my mom's back is turned. He's been pretty angelic since I've been home—I don't think he went to the bathroom in the house once during the past week. It was a major improvement that granted Seamus "gate down" privileges, permitting him to have access to the house without the constant scrutiny of our prying eyes.

Last night he was on one of his energetic tears around the house, running under the dining room table, weaving around the chairs, bouncing up on top of an end table (almost knocking it over in the process), barreling into our laps...fairly entertaining. He ran upstairs, continuing the mad streak, sounding like a poltergeist. I was with my mom and bub downstairs, watching tv...as I was cracking up, Bub goes, "Yeah, it's funny until he poops in your room."

I don't know if he was speaking from experience?

That cut my laughter short, just a little, and I decided to go upstairs to see what the cute little devil was up to. As I reached the top landing, I was faced with an overwhelming stench emanating from my former bedroom. Well, technically "former" since I sleep on the third floor now, but I still have lots of stuff in there. Lots and lots of stuff.

Absolutely horrified and near the gagging point, I crossed the threshold of my room. My first glance to my bed calmed some of my fears: nothing on the sheets or, God forbid, the pillows.

Then I looked down.

THE STUPID DOG HAD CRAPPED ON TOP OF MY WORKOUT PANTS.

A square shot!!! Not like, a pant leg accidentally had wandered into the pile as he skedaddled out of there. He had stood on my freaking pants and pooped his little heart out. And then when he was done doing that, he went to a rug by my bed and repeated the accursed process.

I stared at it, disbelieving. Could it be true? Did he really try to make working out that much more miserable by smearing my clothes in feces? Realizing that there really wasn't any alternative, I gingerly grabbed my pants (dry-heaving in the process) and brought them downstairs, where I summarily dropped them into a trashbag. And then I grabbed the rug (it was old and used to be a bath rug anyhow, I have no idea why it was in my room in the first place) and tossed that into the trash as well.

I know it sounds very J.C. from *Nsyncish (during their heyday he never wore socks or underwear twice), but those pants were 9 bucks. I was willing to let them go. I couldn't deal with the graphic images that I now associate with them. And to think that I used to think that a piece of plastic poop was a funny gag.

So, C-note, I'm sorry to say that we'll never again be connected by our navy with pink stripe workout pants. They had a good run.