teardrops and shit

hormones are a crazy thing. They take you on this rollercoaster ride that makes you laugh and cry and scream and flail your arms and pout…and it’s great and it sucks and it zaps all of your energy and yet revives you at the same time.

Yesterday was a day that my behavior can only be explained with the word HORMONES…well, and the word SHIT too, but mostly hormones.

I woke up early to clean the house as I was expecting friends of Erin’s who were coming over to do a maternity photo shoot in my *new* studio in the basement…more on that later. Instead, what I woke up to was a dog that needed to crap…..

only she couldn’t.

Hannah is our 11-year-old Sheepdog. She’s cute. Fluffy. A little crazy, but she loves us so much and we know she will love Reeve and protect him. She’s KIRK’S dog..not mine, so my love for her has been a, shall we say, acquired taste. When I first met Kirk, I swear you could tell she was testing me out. She was nuerotic and didn’t really seem to care for me. Now? Three years later…I am her momma and her sheep. She herds me every step I take. If I am going down the stairs, she is always on my right, not even a step ahead of me. If I am in bed, her head is on my hip. If I am in the bathtub, her face is looking right at me…wherever I am, she is there. It’s somewhat endearing…she just loves me. And I love that…sometimes.

Sometimes it’s quite annoying though. Like when I am in the shower and she is glaring at me through the glass doors. . . just watching me. Or when I want to put my feet up and she just growls at me as if to say, “Play..come on…love me…scratch my head…toss my monkey for me to fetch…give me some of your chips…love me…c’mon….love you…scratch me.”

Yesterday was one of those days I wanted to put a bullet in her head or hoped that my in-laws in Florida would offer to take her.

Yesterday, as i was baking myself Fiber One Apple Cinammon muffins in hopes of getting my pipes working, Ms. Hannah was having issues of her own. For the whole 40 minutes it took me to mix and bake those muffins, Hannah walked around the backyard trying to squeeze out some of her own poop.

But she couldn’t….no biggie….ten minues later as I was watching TV downstairs and thinking about where to start in my clenaing process, I noticed the distinct smell of dogshit.

Now, what do you notice about this picture? (don’t worry…it’s not dog shit)

I know what you notice…she’s cute isn’t she? With that puppy dog toy in her mouth. With her soft, fluffy fur….

That fur damn near caused me to kill her yesterday. After I noticed the shi*t smell I went straight to the culprit….THE FUR.

Mashed up in her fur was a big, giant TURD that she was obviously having problems getting out so, with Kirk being out town and all, I had to PULL IT OUF HER BUTT!

Read that sentence again.

I HAD TO PULL SHIT OUT OF MY DOG”S BUTT!

Never having done this before, I should have thought to myself that I should do it outside, but was mostly concerned with being as near to a trash can as possible….

upon pulling it out, I was still FUMING that there was SH*t in her fur and knew the next step would be to shave her butt. Yes, you even read that sentence right.

I HAD TO SHAVE MY DOG’S BUTT!

Good thing Kirk has Dog Clippers on hand (electric ones at thtat) for just such a thing!

Oh, but wait…before I could even process where and what tools I would need…her butt started spewing crap out all over the hardwood floors. That SH*t I PULLED OUT OF HER BUTT was a plug that excaped the liquidy, wet Sh*t….

I am, at this point, cussing and trying not to hit her…I know it wasn’t her fault…she was sick or whatever, but I hated her right then. And I hated Kirk for being hungover in some swanky hotel in NYC with his bestie while I was unplugging dog SH*t.

I am crying at this point. Crying and gagging and 7 months pregnant and I don’t know what to do…but clean it up….only, then she shakes herself and SH*t splatters on the WALL!!!!

I clean it up, I am gagging, I shove her in the garage, grab the clippers and shave what I can of her ass!

I call the groomer and get her an appointment for 3:00 (which is HUGE b/c it’s New Year’s Day) and I sit down and I cry…and cry…and try to breathe for 10 minutes before I call Kirk to let him know what I have just gone through…instead I texted him. This is what I wrote:

Your dog has SH*t allllll over the house and has it mashed up in her a$$ hair. I am so fuc*ing mad and this is making me puke. You HAVE to do a better job of grooming her or she is GONE when the baby comes b/c she is a fuc*ing hairball and the floors are gross and I can’t believe I am cleaning up dog SH*t 7 months pregnant. I love you. Hope you are having fun

Now, I knew this wasn’t Kirk’s fault and I wasn’t really even mad at him. When he finally called me, HOURS later after he woke up from a night in Brooklyn ringin in the New Year, I knew enough to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but I was still crying and couldn’t talk about it so I had to hang up and call him later.

However, this dog is always a mess. It’s just impossible for her to have that flyaway shaggy, sheepdog hair you see in movies. It’s more like Whoopie Goldberg meets a Rasta-hippie chick with dreadlocks. It’s not her fault that she is hard to groom, but it IS Kirk’s fault that he bought such a high maintenance dog who needs her hair groomed more than I do.

SO, I cleaned up her mess, lit some candles, opened the doors and kept her ass in the garage for 4 hours while we took the maternity pictures and waited for her 3:00 grooming appointment.

Now she looks like this:

and I am done crying about it, but let me tell you…there was a point yesterday where I thought about just leaving her outside…FOREVER and tell Kirk she disappeared.

Hormones escalated my reaction, but it’s never good to mix hormones and dog shit…

and let me tell you this, those Fiber One Apple Cinammon muffins didn’t look too good any longer either.

Fuc*ing dog…

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