The other morning, at 3:30 in the morning, I am awoken to the sound of a dog crying in the night.
I get up. I go downstairs. I take the dog out of her crate, and into the yard so she can do her doggy thing. Little puppy does her doggy thing in the yard. She’s running and playing in the yard with her big sister, and I figure now is a great time to do my person thing.
I’m gone not one minute doing my person thing, and come out of the bathroom to discover poo all over the stairs. Not just a little poo. I think the little puppy dropped half her body weight all over the stairs. The big dog looks up at me like, “WTF? Don’t look at me! I’m not related to that little monster! I was perfectly happy by myself and y’all went and got another puppy and now you’re looking at me when it unloads the dump truck all over your stairs? Consider yourself fortunate I don’t do the same.” (Dogs, as any owner will tell you, have very expressive looks on their faces, constantly. Whole paragraphs can be summed up with a cocked head and just one kind of whimper. Seriously.)
I start to clean up the puppy poo. The little puppy decides this is a game, and commences to attack the paper towels and the spray bottles and the spray cans, while I am trying to clean up the little one’s poo.
Now I have to bathe the puppy.
At 3:30 in the morning.
Crap, did that dog just run upstairs! I must stop it!