We were so close, weren’t we? The whole posting every day thing? On a veritable roll. Then, *woosh!*
So I need to closely examine the reasons for the derailment: fear of failure, fear of success, writer’s block, commitment phobia? I wrestled with them all, and here’s what it comes down to:
Poop.
Lots and lots of poop. Please stop reading now if you’re of a delicate constitution. Poop in many forms, none of them welcoming. Poop in many places, none of them appropriate. Poop, poop, poop. And the contributing harmony of barf. Barf to be analyzed and discussed in detail as it was searched for clues.
You see, last Monday, our little Jack Russell terrier, Bailey, went in to have her girly parts removed. Now, we have owned many pets (or, if you are with PETA, have “shared our lives and hearts with many companion animals.”), and all of them have gone through the spay and/or neuter process.
But Bailey’s initial bloodwork showed some tricky liver enzyme levels, so we expected it might be a tougher ride than usual. The vet did all sorts of things to make it easier, but we still brought home one stoned little puppy Monday night. Tuesday, she seemed a little better. Wednesday morning, better still.
And then, I went to drop something off at my daughter’s school and left her crate door open.
I returned home 30 minutes later, and found, from foyer to back door, a veritable minefield of bodily fluids. It was if someone had turned a poo-filled blender onto “liquefy” and then left the cap off. Bailey stood, staring at me unblinkingly. Given her size in relation to the size of the disaster, I am certain she had to be completely hollow. Y’all, things happened to my floors that Dick Cheney wouldn’t approve for prisoners at Guatanamo Bay.
I gagged and cleaned and gagged and cleaned and called the vet and then gagged and cleaned some more.
The medicine they gave her Wednesday didn’t work, she went on a hunger strike, and by Thursday night, when I HAD A MID-TERM, I was completely frantic.
Finally, a second round of medicine kicked in, the poo-storm subsided, and now, she’s fine. My Bissell steamer and my psyche are recovering, albeit more slowly.
So the moral to this story? Sometimes crap really does get in the way of our best intentions.
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