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Does It Smell Like Kibble In Here?

As I was leaving for work today — literally leaving, with shoes on, pants zipped, hand on the doorknob — I looked into the living room and saw it. A large, wet, nasty pile of puppy chunks.

At least, I assume they were puppy chunks — freshly blown puppy chunks, mind you — because of all the recognizable bits of dog food therein. So either the mutt had yakked all over the floor, or there are things my wife isn’t telling me about her dietary habits. Strange, kinky, horsemeaty things.

When I saw the mess, I froze. And pondered. I’d just gotten through ninety-nine percent of my morning routine without noticing the pile of spaniel spew before me. My wife, long since gone to the office, couldn’t possibly know whether I’d seen it or not. And she’d be home first. Dare I leave the barfy barrage, and claim innocence later on, after the mess was cleaned?

No. I daren’t.

I daren’t for several reasons. I daren’t because I love my wife, and it’s sometimes a man’s job to do the messy things that a proper lady shouldn’t have to muck about with. Taking out the trash, for instance. Changing light bulbs. Understanding the 3-4 defense. And glomming hound hork off the hardwood, apparently. I do not remember that in the wedding vows.

Also, leaving a mess like that just isn’t sanitary. Besides the vile and creepy critters that kind of thing probably attracts, there’s a fair chance the dog would come back and eat it again. And heave it back up. And down, and up, and down, and up, in a fit of nausea ad nauseum. For the mutt, it’s a few snacks and an aerobic workout. For us, it’s seventeen piles of ‘yuck!‘ where once was only one. I don’t like those odds.

Mostly, though, I figured that my wife would assume I’d seen the pile and left it, and then the proverbial poo would hit the propeller. Believe me when I tell you that hell hath no fury like a woman cleaning kacked-up kibble off the floor when someone else saw it first and walked away. You think she’d put your nuts in a vise over ogling other women, gents? Try that number on for size.

So, I did the right thing and sponged up the spaniel spew. And in doing so discovered another pile of the stuff, this time on my wife’s couch. The dog sleeps on the couches when we’re not around, which we don’t much like, but have come to accept as ‘just one of those things she’ll never learn, no matter which end of the tennis racket you beat her with’.

(I suggested we buy a taser to get the message across, but my wife said no. Something about ‘animal cruelty’ and ‘humane treatment’ and ‘ASPCA jumping on our asses’.

Pfffft. I think she just doesn’t want the house smelling like Korean food every time we zap her.)

Anyway, I finally got the chow chunks off the floor, cleaned up the ‘bonus pile’, duct-taped the dogs lips together to prevent another spew, and got the hell out of there. There’s only so much not-mine vomit a guy can stand before that first cup of coffee.

(And no, ya puppy-loving freaks out there, I didn’t really duct-tape the dog’s lips. I did almost mix SuperGlue into her food instead, but I didn’t, okay? I didn’t!

Note to self: We’re out of SuperGlue. Pick up a tube next time we’re at Staples. See if they make it in bacon flavor.)

So, that was my nasty morning. But at least I got to come home to a happy, loving wife this evening, who was cheerful and chipper and none the wiser that any mess had ever been made.

Which is unfortunate, seeing as how she was lying sprawled on the couch that I’d marginally cleaned up a few hours before. And I didn’t have the heart — or the nerve — to tell her. Eventually, she turned over, snuggled her face into the pillow, and drifted off to sleep. I don’t know what sorts of dreams she had, but I’m guessing they involved Alpo. That can’t be good, can it?