Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Dropping Deuces

I had a bad Monday. I fully expected to have my ear drum molested by a rabid squirrel before the clock struck midnight.

Where to begin? It was Monday, work sucked, traffic sucked, the weather sucked, and my dog dropped not one, not two, but three piles of poop in our bedroom.

Quincy, aka the Mad Crapper, was locked in our bedroom yesterday because we were having some work done to the house. We thought the fat basset would be OK. I took him out in the morning, and then Mrs. Shife came home at lunch to take care of him. But evidently between 1 pm and 5 pm it is business time for my beloved hound dog and he had to unload the manure spreader.

Maybe he plans a bowel movement during the afternoon and we screwed it up for him. Maybe he likes to go out when the sunlight has fully engulfed our back yard, take care of business, and then do some light reading. Maybe it is good way for him to unwind and get some peace and quiet before I come home. So maybe it is my fault and I postponed his previously scheduled deuce.

I would like to think that Shitter McCanine held it as long as he could. Did he feel the ache? The abdominal pain? Were sweat beads forming on his furry forehead? Did he clench his cheeks to keep the levees from breaking at all? Did he wonder if there was more to life, other than being really, really, ridiculously good looking? Did he contemplate crapping in one of my shoes just to make it less of a mess?

I will never know what truly happened on that February afternoon.
And that’s OK.
As I was picking up Quincy’s poo parade, I just looked into his big brown eyes and sang him a little Bryan Adams:

Look into my eyes - you will see
What you mean to me
Search your heart - search your soul
And when you find me there you'll search no more

Don't tell me it's not worth tryin' for
You can't tell me it's not worth dyin' for
You know it's true
Everything I do - I do it for you


19 comments:

thisdayandage said...

my favorite lines from this post: "were sweat beads forming on his furry forehead? did he clench his cheeks to keep the levees from breaking at all?" these are the questions I ask myself everyday, and it's good to know that someone else has them too.

and if quincy can't say it, I will say it for him: "I'm sorry for shitting in your bedroom."

Ron, apparently said...

You know he's not in the least bit sorry. The moment the turtle started to show his head, all thoughts of hound/master loyalty went out of the window. "Squat and be damned" became the furry beast's mantra of the moment.
The only thing those damn creatures understand is discipline. Spare the rod and spoil the dog, I say. National service. That'd cure 'em. 2 years in the army would straighten 'em out, learn some respect etc. etc.
Cheers for the Charlie comment, although I have to say it's nice to have more space in the back room.

TOPolk said...

That was surprisingly more heartwarming than I thought it would be. I could feel the love there.

Robyn said...

Well...
First off I am sorry about the little crapper taking care of business not once but 3 times. Geesh! What do you feed that hound of yours? LOL! Thanks again for the 'always' great laugh, when I come here! And thanks again for stopping by the blog. Just like seeing your face around...:)
Hugs,
Robyn

Jon said...

I can see how singing Bryan Adams would do that to someone's day.

The Duck said...

Excellent post Shife. You know I appreciate your original content.

Oh, and only suckers work on Presidents' Day.

cher said...

i think you would have been fine if you had tried a little harder on the poem for me. Quincy could have been sporting a fresh mudbutt holder around your house like a proud stallion at a stampede.

maybe he was in his own hellish form of BHOS.

INNER VOICES said...

nothing better than after a hard days work then cleaning up dog shit... the joys, the love you feel for your animal, the wonderful aromas... ahhh... sweet bliss.

Travis Erwin said...

Only you, could entertain me with a post about your dog crapping.

Jillian said...

LOL @ Shitter McCanine.

Dog shit sucks. When we had a house dog the damn thing would crap half on the newspaper and half off. He got it just right enough to wear I couldn't really discipline him.

Dogs belong outside!

Cecile said...

Well your crappy Monday made me laugh on my crappy Thursday, so I guess it all equalled out in the end. Was there a pun in that statement somewhere? And from one dog lover to another, I completely understand the love you two share. Hope your weekend makes up for your Monday!

tina said...

lol@poo parade ! - me thinks the poofume got to you if you ended the day singing Bryan to poopster ;)

billy pilgrim said...

ah, the brotherhood of quadraped keepers.i know where you're coming from.

all dog crap isn't created equal. unfortunately, ruby never has an accident when her by-products are hard and dry.

once she ate a box of brownie mix that went through her like greased lightening. it was a real mess but surprisingly smelled quite nice, like fresh brownies.

The Egg said...

Well I hope your weekend is better! I hate stepping on dog crap! I won't realize until I detect a pungent odor later. And then wonder how many people I must have scared away!

Skiingred said...

At least he didn't wipe his butt on your carpet - I don't think even the Oxyclean could have cleaned that one up (although it does a nice job on cat puke.)

Bryan Adams -- he's the shit!

angel, jr. said...

That's a very sweet song to sing while picking up poop. It goes with the whole Bryan Adams thing--crap with crappy music.

The Reverend Jon Boles said...

Leo got me with the brownie mix comment.

Kinda reminds me of my two cats on Monday. The elderly female vomited a large heap of freshly eaten food, and before I could get up to get the paper towels to scoop it up, Little Boy Wonder sucked it down like a vacuum.

Guess what I'm saying here is maybe you should look into finding a shiteater.

Design Goddess said...

You could borrow my friend's chocolate lab. He likes to eat poo. Eeeeew!

Dr. Kenneth Noisewater said...

If I ever visit the land of potatoes, can I take a dump on the floor while you sing the sweet sounds of Mr. Adams?