My life seems to be punctuated by shit explosions, both literal and metaphorical. This time it was literal. Again.
Fitz managed to weasel her way into the garbage and score herself two freezer-burned ham steaks that were about a combined quarter her body weight. She’s a tiny dog. She was happy, briefly, until she let loose all over the floor in both bathrooms. Even her pee was full of shit.
She was happy. I was not.
I needed rubber gloves and a whole lot of resolve, but I’m hardcore.
I hate you sometimes, Fitz.
Hopefully you spotted the fecal pool, before you stepped in it. Nothing worse than the feel of pooh squishing up through your toes in the middle of the night. Been there done that. What started out as a quick dash to the bathroom at 2:30 in the morning, turns into a foot bath, and carpet scrubbing that ends at 3:15.
Talk to you later.