From Now On, Only Posts About Poop

Brea is complaining. I've thought about it and decided not to confirm the validity of her complaint due to the nature of her complaint which is, best case scenario, dog poop related. But is it animal cruelty related? An interesting question, given how little information I've presently divulged about the situation. It should help for you to know that her complaint regards an alleged smell coming from upstairs—a smell described to me as not unsimilar to poo or vomit coming from the direction of Bret's bedroom which happens to be, not inconsequently, the same direction as my bedroom and bathroom, which are the only reasons I am here today instead of at my parents' house 20 miles away taking care of my poo-breathed dog and watching Sunday television, which is probably competitive horse... prancing.

"It smells really bad up there," says Brea. "Have you been up there? Or... did you just... come from up there?" She sounds increasingly guarded.

But no, it wasn't me, and no, I don't smell it from my position on the possibly spider-infested couch. All I know is that I came here to clean the bathroom, put my room in order, and collect my dirty laundry, but now there is a smell I don't want to smell, which suggests a situation I don't want to deal with. And having issues I don't want to deal with is why I have this blog. Without stopping to consider how long this will take or if it will be worth it or if this will help me run out of time before I can clean the bathroom or my room, I get right to work, and I have a lot of catching up to do.

Another handy bit of information on the whole "animal cruelty" question you so off-puttingly brought up earlier is that there are two dogs locked in a kennel in Bret's room. "Kennel" is what you call a cage when you feel guilty about it. But not to worry, both dogs are "kennel" trained, I mean, "kennel trained," which means their dog wills have been broken for their own dog good. They sleep in the kennel and contentedly hang out in there for a few hours at a time when necessary, like now, while Bret is on a bike ride and Brea and I are just getting home and the back yard is occupied temporarily by another dog that is here recovering from a tussle with still another dog who was (and this is the scientific explanation) jealous of his balls. So seriously, stop freaking out and going on with this "How could you just sit there and blog about this? You're probably ignoring the fact that a dog is up there caged in with his own shit, and another dog is up there caged in with the other dog's shit" shit. (Yeah, in the past year I've learned to cuss not unlike a sailor, but I still never follow a thought in a straight line... probably also an unsailorlike behavior. Er... no, not also. And while we're on the subject, who are you to say I'm sitting? People never stand on couches? People never type while standing?)

And now a timely (narrative-saving) report from Brea: "Bret said he's coming back in a half hour, so I didn't tell him that's the reason why I called," she says. "I don't know. I mean, would you want to know?"

Yes, yes I would. However, she's right; it doesn't make any difference whether Bret knows our selfish reason for wondering when he will be back. He's on a bike ride (a situation I would never put myself in), and knowing what awaits him won't make him pedal any faster. If anything it could cause him to take mental inventory of his worldly possessions minus his bike and potentially just head southwest toward more favorable climate. Brea and I agree that something needs to be done, and soon, but if someone other than us can do something about it, and soon, then boy, that's friggin fantastic as, well, the subject at hand. (Yeah, I swore off cussing. And yeah, just for the pun.)

"Are you typing what I'm saying?" Brea asks.

taptaptap

"Is this your blog?"

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"You should put 'Copper has big balls." Copper is the dog outside. He does have big balls. This blog is now about dog poop and dog balls.

At this point I begin reading and editing what I have so far. We can only guess how much harder you'd be laughing by now if Bret hadn't shown up when he did. I'm not saying this to be mean, but that guy pretty much ruins everything. He's like the Lance Armstrong of beating fun cancer and winning the Tour de Lame. Anyway, trapped in the flow of time as I am (what given my speed relative to Bret) I postpone the greatness and ask him if he smells anything. Bret goes upstairs to investigate.

In the interest of saving time, Bret tailors his assessment for the benefit of me and the dogs. "Yeah that's pretty gross, Wilco. That's why you poop outside in the [hell-bound] morning, [friend to lonely mothers]. Hold still."

Bret comes downstairs with Wilco and Zoe and leashes them to the end table near their auxiliary bed, about four feet away from me. Feeling the need to justify the fact that I'm not helping even a little bit, I explain what I'm doing.

"Cool. I'm pretty excited for you. do you want to clean it up instead?"

taptaptap"thanks but no"taptaptap

Bret leaves the dogs and goes upstairs with what I thought was a can of Raid but I'm trusting is a cleaning product unless I'm majorly misunderstanding what happened up there. Neither Wilco nor Zoe support the arts, and therefore they both whine incessantly as I type onward toward the universal approval and gratitude of every teacher I've ever had. The noise coming from the dogs is like the shrill metallic squeak of a rusty gate hinged to my temporal lobe, a gate that is being slowly opened forever or at least until my death. It is under the influence of this sound that I edit what I have so far and add all of the harsh language and lame jokes. I still like Wilco and Zoe, but in an "I want to fill their nostrils with popcorn kernels and put them in the doggy microwave for two minutes or until the popping sounds are ten seconds apart" sort of way.

Bret calls down from the stairs. "It's like he stuck his butt up to the cage and let it rip. Like, 'I don't want to get this all over the kennel.'"

Bret's not just talking like this to be quotable. Conversations with him really are this awesome on a regular basis. I was only kidding when I said he sticks his butt up against the metaphorical "cage" and lets it rip. And see, it is a cage and people do call it a kennel.