Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

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Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Zen of Shit

My office smells like dog shit.

Yesterday, at the obscene hour of 4:30 AM, the Rat Dog woke up and stomped on the J-Man until he fell out of bed and put her outside. Because she's a Coyote Happy Meal, putting the Rat Dog out means following her out into the icy, dark morning to fend off predators.

"Mmmph?" I said when husband and the Rat returned to bed.

"She's a bad dog. Didn't go potty at bedtime. Had to go now," he grumbled.

Uh-oh, I thought. The Rat likes sleep. Bellyache. A half hour later, the husband was in the shower, I was still in bed and the Rat started to make glurk-glurk noises. I flailed, tangled in sheets and finally free, grabbed her and bolted into the bathroom. She puked in the toilet.

I studied the floaters in the toilet. "Bark? You're eating tree bark?"

"Crunchy. Sick now." She kicked her little legs. "Breakfast?"

"No. No breakfast for sick dogs."

The morning progressed as usual. Me running around the house, screaming, "Where are my keys? Where are my sunglasses? Shit. I lost the barn key." Rat Dog, hungry and pouting, sulked on the couch.

Several hours later, I returned. The Greyhound was staring mournfully at his bed. "She barfed on my bed," he seemed to say.

"Twice." I glared at Rat Dog.

"Outside. Sunshine. More bark." She frowned at me and stood at the backdoor.

Not seeing anything more ominous than the puke, I went out to feed Nikster the Wonder Horse and then made myself lunch. I dragged the Rat into the house before she could eat more bark.

She puttered after me as I headed for the office. "What's that smell?" I said. A brownish green glob of poop sat on the dog hair-crusted rug. I pointed at the pyramid of poop. "Who did this?"

"You did," said the Rat Dog. With that, she curled her tail over her back and tottered defiantly away.

Like a tiny Mount Crap-a-toa, the Rat Dog had erupted on the rug. The room has a tile floor. But she was careful to only shit on the carpet, taking delight in squirting on the impossible-to-clean fringe.

I spent the afternoon spraying and respraying the areas with enzymatic cleaner and sending a toxic cloud of air freshener into the air. "She's old," I reminded myself. "She's old."

Rediscovered the comic strip, Sinfest. The devil, temptation, sex and political incorrectness. Joyous.


Graphics and Content Copyright © Patricia Kirby 2005