Potty Blogging

What do you do at 4:30 in the morning when your dog sprays shit all over the inside of his kennel while his spare set of blankies is still in the wash from when he did the same thing three hours before?

Why, write a blog post about it, of course!

You should also probably clean up his kennel, put his spare blankies in the dryer, and wash his freshly-beshat blankies. The blog post will be borne of the fact that you can't stand the idea of hearing him shit in his kennel again, which happens to sit about a foot directly to the right of your head when you're lying in bed, so you decide it would be better to sit in the computer room with him until breakfast time (in 2 hours) so at least he has the opportunity to let you know when he needs to go out. Also, if you have to wake Mark again to turn on the bedroom light and clean Buster's kennel, which you've just done for the second time in as many hours, you think some bodily harm might befall someone in the house.

So: Buster has, we believe, committed a "dietary indiscretion" which has apparently tied his guts up in knots. The poor bugger has been shitting his brains out tonight, and it seems like these bouts of the runs sneak up on him, because he barely has time to ask to be taken out before he's shitting on the floor. So far he's gotten the computer room, the entryway just inside the front door (we were so close to making it outside!), the living room in front of the TV, and our bedroom (but Mark says this doesn't count because he shat inside his kennel rather than on our bedroom rug) twice. I am now washing blankets for the third time in the past 6 hours thanks to Buster's butt.

I am also awake at 4:30 in the morning, which is a bad thing on a day when you have a History paper due.

UPDATE:

At 5:40 a.m., after Buster had spent more than an hour sleeping peacefully in his basket next to my desk, I couldn't take it anymore and decided to go back to bed. I installed him carefully in his kennel with his fresh blankets and snuggled back into my own bed, eager for some sleep. The kitten, wise little thing that she is, had taken her leave an hour earlier and was already stretched out under the covers on my side of the bed, and it was glorious to settle into that warm nest with her fuzzy little body pressed against me. Ah, sweet rest.

Twenty minutes later, Buster took another shit. So here we are, back in the computer room, starting over again.

In a Pickle

So last week my mom started sending me photos of the kitten. Several of them included "Molly's baby" in the title. It was all very cute, but there was one small flaw upon which my mental sweater snagged: the kitten in the photos was not the kitten of whom my mother had been sending photos for the previous 6 weeks. When I asked her about it, OOPS, she'd already given that one away and when she was talking about "the runt" before, she was referring to this other kitten. Well, gee, okay.

We went to pick her up on Saturday and I fell instantly in love. Named her "Pickle."
The poor exhausted little mite fell asleep while licking herself.


She is perfectly adorable, if slightly obnoxious; she is positive she could nurse on Sinner, our decidedly male older cat, if he would just hold still and let her find a nipple. My limbs are covered in scratches thanks to her ambitious schedule of playing and climbing all over me irrespective of whether I am awake at the time. I have been tempted a few times to toss her out the window of our tri-level townhouse, but her cuteness has saved her each time. It has only been three days, but she has already entrenched herself firmly in our little family. Which consists mostly of domesticated animals, now that I think about it.

Goddamn, we're outnumbered.