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
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