Out With The Old, In With The Poo

Silly me, to get sentimental about New Year's.

Silly me, to think for a few minutes there that if I just tried harder and had a better attitude, 2011 really could be less shitful than 2010 was.

Silly me for thinking what might be fun after the Old Crow show would be coming home, cuddling in the bed with boy and dog alike, eating some candy at 1 AM and watching a Netflix free-trial episode of Friday Night Lights.

Because instead what we came home to was the dog, for the first time in almost 18 months, having shit himself in the house. Possibly it happened at midnight when people hooted, hollered, and presumably fired some guns. Or he just relearned some unbelievably bad habits while boarding for the past four days. In any event, liquid, occasionally aerosolized, dogshit, on his crate tray (some solids on this too, HUZZAH); his towel; his crate itself (large amounts considering the only surface area it had to adhere to was a wire grid. And yet!); our bedroom floor; our really lovely still-newish duvet cover (which he's not even allowed to sleep on); our actual duvet (having soaked through the duvet cover); eventually, his bed; and his own fucking nose. The shit on which would not come off, first with a wet-ish paper towel and then even with a moderately-forceful scrub with a wet wipe. D had to do it because after two tries of trying to get dogshit off my dog's nose while we both stood outside in the rain and then screaming at him, "STOP LICKING IT, OH MY GOD," I very nearly had heart failure. Our house smells fucking horrible and the dog just had his second bath in one day and oh Lordy does this not bode well.