Jan 09 2003
Shit happens
Note to self: multi-tasking, in the form of picking up two people’s worth of dry cleaning at the end of the dog’s afternoon walk – not the best idea you ever had. One arm fully occupied with clothes covered in plastic bags, both long and slide-y and also surprisingly heavy, the other trying vainly to control a dog composed of 35 pounds of solid muscle and .00002 ounces of brain, alternately sniffing endlessly, or pulling as hard as she can, while wearing a sweater that turns out to spontaneously unbutton itself when you have no free hand to re-button it…well, thank Les Cent Culottes that the bra I was wearing was really cute.
Only 4 more days, if I don’t count today (though there are still two walks to go) or the day Mom goes home with her menagerie, and I can’t bear to, so…4 more days…4 more days…
However, I have nothing to complain about compared to my brother.
Warning: viewer discretion advised. The following contains graphic scenes of grossness that should be found on John’s side of this blog. Yes, that scary. You have been warned.
Yesterday, my brother got the surprise of his life when he went out to the parking lot to repair his truck and suddenly discovered that he was up to his ankles in, well, shit. Our sister Megan is taking care of two of Mom’s dogs indefinitely, and they were apparently bored at home and had gone down the road to Jonathan’s place, where they proceeded to tear open his composting outhouse and scatter its uncomposted contents all over the place until interrupted by the very irate outhouse owner. You can imagine cleaning that mess up, and how popular Mom’s dogs are with him. Almost as popular as the one I’m looking after is with me.
I made the mistake of calling him while he was cleaning up and I don’t think I have ever heard him angrier. I was wise enough to hang up immediately and above all, not to say, “Shit happens.”