My parents tell an infamous tale of me and poop. I was a wee baby, and my mom went to the grocery, leaving my dad with said wee baby.
At this point, my dad’s words ring through my mind. “And jiminy christmas, the second she pulled out the driveway, you pooped.”
Then the storytelling moves back to Mom. “I got home, and YOUR FATHER is standing at the top of the basement stairs, stripped to the waist. And he cries, ‘She pooooooped! And it got on ME! It got under my FINGERNAILS!'”
And then, she always adds a lovely little coda. “And he’d strapped you naked to the changing table.”
This story gets more detailed with every telling. I love it, because at this point, it’s almost performance art. And because I can picture my dad in his jeans, standing at the top of the basement stairs in our old house, freaking the fuck out. But I also love it because on some level, I can relate.
Li’l Frankfurter was sedated today so the vet could take X-rays of the kid’s back. Everyone’s favorite doxie is doing better, but the X-rays will give us an idea of what’s really going on in his long little doggie back.
He woke up from the sedation and we left. He cried when I put him in the kennel in the backseat and I felt guilty. He obviously wanted to be held. I considered pulling over and just this once holding him while I drove. He’d had a stressful afternoon.
But while I was mulling this over, an aroma filled the car.
I’ve had my car for two years but it still feels new to me. But you wanna know when the new car smell officially goes away? It’s when your dog has explosive diarrhea in said vehicle.
Poor baby. He was obviously upset. Once we got home, he had a bath immediately. And I as I used my bare hands to scrape the poo off Frank’s fur, I thought of my sweet daddy. “It got under my fingernails!”
Frank is now asleep. The kennel has been washed and bleached. The car is in the garage, windows open. I have dishpan hands from washing them approximately 953 times. But sometimes? Sometimes, love means getting poop under your nails.