There is not very much that I loathe more than waking up to the eye-burning, nostril-searing, and choking assault that is dogshit.
In the last few days, one of our three dogs hasn't felt well.
It only took a couple of hours to figure out which one was leaving their evidence of gastrointestinal distress.
Great. It's the big one.
Why couldn't it be the small one? Or even the medium dog?
Oh wait- nevermind. His legs are too short for him to actually point his nether-region "downward". Historically, when the medium dog is ill, his evidence leaves a trail; covering the floor, the baseboard, and four inches up the wall above the baseboard. And, oh, by the way, it stains.
Everything.
It's kind of ironic really, that the big dog is sick, since we're dealing with some health scares with some friends.
One is having a barrage of tests done today to find out what's wrong with his throat, while another friend is sitting in the intensive care unit, waiting on a heart catheterization to investigate possible blockages.
Everyone's operating in a new level of worry; all of a sudden, aware of the health we all take for granted. Just like the dog with the squirts, we all know something isn't right.
It's interesting how we live, oblivious to how the 'what we do now' could affect our future; whether it's the near future, or far off.
But when the reminder of our own mortality shows up, suddenly we're painfully aware of what we've done wrong, or what we've done right. It is then that fear grips us.
If the fear of death had a smell, it would smell like dogshit.
Once it's there, no matter how hard you scrub, the stench doesn't leave right away. It lingers. You have to fight to get rid of it. All the candles in the world can't make the smell disappear. The only thing that works is a cross breeze, a little patience, and time.
A gas mask wouldn't hurt, either...
