This morning, I had my very own Bruce Almighty "b-e-a-utiful" moment. First, for reference:
As I was saying, I had my very own moment this morning. Except, times 100.
We've had our dog Perry for two months. He's a pug. He's two. He's super cool. As a disclaimer, he's also been very good in the arena of not doing his biz-nass inside the apartment. Except for the last couple of days. I think it may have something to do with the fact that he's eaten three different types of food this week (one type being pretty crappy), and that's all messing with his insides.
When I woke up this morning, I let Perry out of the kitchen where we usually keep him overnight. I then made my way to the bathroom so I could put my contacts in (always the first thing I do since I am blind without them and left my glasses in Acadia National Park in July). At this time, I noticed Perry was jogging back and forth between where I was standing and the top of the stairs that lead to our door. Oh crap, I thought. He looks like he really needs to go out. Weird! This is weird because he usually can go ten to twelve hours without having any issues. I tried to hurry and put my contacts in. As I lifted my left contact to my eye, I suddenly heard the dreaded sound of fluid on carpet.
I took off, contact still on my finger, screaming, "No!! No!! Dangit! No!!" I managed to startle him, so he stopped. I groaned and began to complete putting my left contact in so I could take Perry out to carry out the rest of his unfinished business.
As I lifted my finger to my eye, my contact flittered away and onto the floor somewhere. Not only had my dog peed on my floor, but now I found myself crawling on my hands and knees, patting the ground around the pee puddle to find my contact and praying to God it hadn't fallen in the dog pee.
"Forget it." I had to take Perry out, contact or not. So half-blind I took Perry outside. He proceeded to cap off his number one and then drop off a number two. This number two was not a normal number two. A normal number two is what we call in the science realm a "solid." This number two was somewhere between a "solid" and a "liquid." I took out a baggie and did my best to grab what I could, and then I experienced what is one of my worst nightmares: my hand somehow burst through the bag, plunging my fingers and hand right into Perry's pseudo-solid mish mash.
I grabbed another bag, and with one hand, I tried to bag the broken bag and keep my cool about there being brown mashed potatoes all over my right hand. While I was trying to figure this out and not scream a blood-curdling scream of frustration, Perry was pulling at just the right angle on his leash so as to slip out of his loose collar. Before my eyes could fully expand to their "Oh don't even THINK about it!" size, Perry seized his opportunity and took off running down the street. The only encouraging news from this morning was that I discovered I am faster than my dog. So, half-blind, open bag of poop in one hand and poop ON my other hand, I chased Perry down, pinned him, and somehow got his collar back on, got the bag tied up, threw the bag way, and brought him back inside.
I did find my contact. I did wash my hands. Eight times with half the bottle of soap.
I did laugh about it.
Because I still love this dog.