What’s that I smell at the crack of dawn?

Dear Readers,

Do you remember the strawberries and cream post?

You know, the one that made you smile as you reminisced about your favorite scents and aromas?

Well, today’s post is the antithesis of that post.

Today, I plan to wax poetic about poop.

Now before you click to the next blog, I ask that you bear with me.

Hopefully there’s a lesson to be learned here and you’ll walk away a bit more knowledgeable; a bit wiser.

This morning, at precisely the crack of dawn, I was awakened by the foulest stench I have ever smelled.

Anxiously opening my eyes to see what the source was, I saw Roxy standing at the foot of my bed sporting a look that said, “It wasn’t me.”

However, the evidence laying just a foot away said otherwise.

Cursing the “poorer than a church mouse” status that prevented me from calling out to a maid named Helga, who would swiftly take care of the problem, I forced myself out of bed.

My knee joint made a peculiar noise but I soldiered on, unwilling to give in to the pain that has forced me to be on house arrest for the past month.

Giving Roxy a sharp glance, I asked, did you poopy?

(Pronounced poopee)

Roxy sheepishly hung her head and swiftly exited the room, leaving me alone with her “gift.”

I thought how wonderful it would be to have a butler, a maid, or robot I could program to take care of the smelly little pile.

But alas, such is not the case.

Grabbing the wet wipes, a bottle of bleach, rubber gloves, and a plastic bag, I took a deep breath and dug in.

The wave of nausea that assaulted me alerted me to the fact that a hazmat suit would have been better suited for the job.

Opening a window, I felt the cold make its way into the room, all 20 degrees of it.

I frowned as I realized that the delicious scent of strawberries and cream that had lingered for weeks had been replaced by the toxic smell of bleach.

Looking up to the ceiling, I quietly whispered to the powers that be, why do you hate me so much?

Roxy, this time drawn to the scene by the toxic fumes, made her way to where I stood.

Sitting on my foot, she rested her head against my leg–her way of apologizing for how the day had started.

So what’s the valuable lesson to be learned here?

It’s simple: The next time you find yourself standing by the kitchen sink at midnight, quietly scarfing down a piece of “turron” your aunt Paquita sent you from Spain and wonder if you should share some with your pleading furry friend, don’t.

Unless you have a maid named Helga.

Or a hazmat suit.

Or both.

And now, a shot of turron so you know what started this ordeal.

cc licensed ( BY NC SD ) flickr photo shared by formalfallacy @ Dublin (Victor)

How is your day coming along?

Did you forget to scoop?

Why is it that when you do things right, there’s never an audience to witness your accomplishments, but the second you commit the tiniest of infractions, there’s a whole crowd ready to provide an eyewitness account?

This morning was one of those days.

I woke up a bit later than usual and Roxy, who by this time had already activated her third bladder, was eager to get outside.

I quickly threw on a robe, grabbed the house keys, sunglasses, a much-needed cup of coffee, and ran out the door.

It wasn’t until I had gone down a flight of stairs, that I realized I had left Roxy behind.

I could hear her clawing at the door and when I opened it, she appeared to be holding her hind legs together.

Out we scurried but the minute we made it outside, I realized I had left the “poopie” (pronounced poo-pee) bags in the house.

Not wanting to go back upstairs, I carried on remembering that Roxy usually only pees in the morning.

Imagine my dismay when out of nowhere, Roxy decides to empty her bowels on the path leading to the dog park.

I stopped dead in my tracks. Or more accurately, we stopped dead in our tracks, because in less time than it takes to say “poop,” we found ourselves surrounded by three powerful looking seniors, all sporting looks of contempt.

They stared at us in silence and suddenly, shouts were heard.

“Don’t let her get away! I’m coming!”

An elderly woman, driving a battery operated wheelchair hastened to join the circle of women.

“I brought my chair in case she tries to make a run for it!”

“Don’t worry, Martha. We’ve got her cornered.”

I felt like I had fallen down a black hole and into a fantasy world where senior citizens had the strength of Hercules and the speed of The Flash.

Panic started to set in when I saw “Martha” make one of the finger signals the SWAT team makes immediately before breaking into a building.

Roxy, unaware of the little pickle we found ourselves in, let out a sigh of boredom and looked at me as if to say, “I’m done crapping. What are we waiting for?”

I looked at her with a look that said, “Don’t move, bitch. We’re about to be tackled, so get ready to run.”

Yet both of us knew there wasn’t a chance in hell we were going to escape Martha and her battery operated wheelchair.

As they closed in on us, I heard one of them say, “You weren’t planning on leaving that poop there for someone to step in, were you?”

Nervously I whispered, “No, Ma’am.”

Another one said, “Then what are you waiting for? Pick it up.”

I felt like I was back on the playground, surrounded by bullies.

Slowly, I searched my pockets and even my bra, hoping to find a used Kleenex which could be used to pick up the offending poop.

Yet something told me they knew I was just going through the motions; cognizant that my pockets were empty.

“Oh, hurry up and give her a poop bag. The poor woman’s still wearing her bathrobe, for God’s sake.”

“Eileen, I thought we discussed this. We’re not supposed to let them off easy. And this one’s just starting to sweat.”

Magically, a poopie bag was thrust in my face.

I quickly slipped the plastic bag over my hand, scooped the poop, and tossed it into the trashcan.

“We’re watching you,” said Martha, making the same gesture Robert Deniro made to Ben Stiller in “Meet the Parents.”

Cautiously, Roxy and I took three steps back, pivoted, and walked away as fast as our little legs could carry us.

When there was some distance between us I shouted, “FYI, I always scoop my poop! This is the first time I forget my poopie bags.”

All four ladies shouted back in unison, “That’s what they all say!”

Note to self: Nail poopie bags to the front door.

Do you scoop when your dog poops?