I think the saying goes something like, "Pets: It's impossible to live without them ... but you can't have a sanitary household with 'em."
Sh*tty K*tty has received veterinary care. After multiple days on a catheter, his blockage is gone! His pee-chute is clear! His kidneys are filtering! His bladder is ... swollen?
This all makes sense, and in the depths of my brain, prior to grad school, I probably knew: the bladder is a muscle. Muscles require exercise. When a muscle is not used properly for an extended time, no matter how many blockages you remove, it takes a while for the muscle to remember how it's supposed to work.
In the meantime, Sh*tty means, with all his sh*tty little heart, to do this in the litterbox where it belongs:
But instead, he ends up doing this wherever his Sh*tty little pee-chute wanders:
So the little orange jerk is locked up in the guest bathroom, where it's easy enough to wipe down all surfaces. Unfortunately, he is feeling better. When Sh*tty feels better and does not get what he wants, he does not handle it like Severus Rickman.
No. Sh*tty subscribes more to a ... different method of conflict resolution:
In case you're not following my logic train, here, Sh*tty is the adorable little girl in the kerchief, and me, the dog, the husband, and anyone else within state boundaries is the awkward pony.
Thus it is that everyone within a 100 mile radius knows, understands, and empathizes with Sh*tty's burning desire to not be in the guest bathroom because he needs to be anywhere else, because, you see, he doesn't want to be there. Did he mention the guest bathroom? And how it's bad? And he quite reasonably wants to be on the couch? Leaking pee?
Under normal circumstances this would be fine. (No, it wouldn't. Who am I kidding? It's driving me batsh*t, but you grit your teeth and pretend it's cool because you're a mother-fucking adult, right?) However, never one to skip a party, FluterDog has decided to join into the fun.
Every summer, she gets a hotspot. She gets a hotspot on her face. For those of you unfamiliar with stupid, disease-ridden dogs who insist on being sick with messy diseases because you, kind people, have normal dogs who just eat food and poop ... a hotspot is a bacterial skin thing that occurs because there's moisture trapped in their fur. It itches.
So they scratch. And scratch. And scratch some more. Dogs do not respect epidermis. They do not care for the weakness of the flesh. They only care about the itching.
What you get is something like this:
As an extra special bonus, dogs always scratch their messy itches on the sofa, by the bed, or nearish to ... I dunno, clean laundry? The key is that it be fabric and therefore more receptive to bloodstains.
Bodily fluids are no big deal in this household. We've got that mess covered. So! FluterDog has also decided that her stomach rejects her dog food. I will spare you the gif. Let me just leave you with this fascinating tidbit about my dog:
When my dog relieves herself, she must spin around quickly to inspect it. Does anyone else remember the Spirograph? Or the paint version that came out a little later? No?
Let your imagination do the talking.
BUT WE HAVE ALL OF THIS UNDER CONTROL. THESE ARE THINGS I CAN HANDLE CALMLY. I WOULD NEVER OVERUSE CAPS OR SLIDE INTO THE USE OF BOLDFACE BECAUSE BLOOD AND POOP AND LEAKING PEE ARE ALL TOTALLY NORMAL AND NOT UNSANITARY AT ALL.
What I cannot handle calmly is the feet licking. After her morning spirograph walk, she started licking her feet. Constantly. Incessantly. INFURIATINGLY. And she wouldn't stop.
Moments ago, FluterDog, dog of my heart, beloved dog of my soul, finally stopped licking her goddamned, stupid dog feet. Then she walked two steps and spit up a caterpillar. Slug? Many-legged squishy bug type thing.
Ladies and gentlemen, it probably looked like this:
But, as you may understand from the many-photo'd synopsis of my last week (or from my recent history of gross-out postings), what I saw was not that, but this:
I'm moving out. I'm going to a tropical island where they don't have bugs. Or poop.
Does anyone want a leaking cat or a mentally defective dog*?
*Just kidding**, I love them. I think.
**I think I'm kidding. Pretty sure.***
***We'll find out if I'm kidding when we find out what else is going to go wrong with them.
(No seriously, I love my pets. But Jesus.)