It’s the weekend. From a blogging standpoint, the weekend means no one is reading this. No one is reading this because weekends are for running errands, shopping, day drinking, or sitting in a folding chair somewhere on a sideline watching recreational kids sports.
The letter H.
It’s technically furry butts but I used the letter F on my husband’s weather woman crush.
The shit I deal with.
This is Belle and me earlier today. We were in line, waiting to exit the soccer park. Exiting the soccer park is like leaving a parking lot after a concert only you’re excited to get the hell out of there because you have errands to run. But before those errands you have to go home and wash your dog’s asshole. I’m praying her asshole isn’t touching my sleeve.
What is this photo I’m showing you?
That would be my father-in-law and Belle. They’re watching Emma’s soccer game. No one is around them because they’re standing in the Burton shit storm of 2017.
Scott is Emma’s soccer coach. Scott and Emma have to be at the field early to warm up. That leaves me to bring Kate. I decided to bring our yorkie poo, Belle, to the game.
In my typical life fashion – shit happened. I brought a baggie and some paper towels because this ain’t my first rodeo.
As soon as Kate, Belle, and I stepped on grass, Belle hovered her hips.
“Kate, stop. Belle’s pooping.”
Belle continued to walk and hover.
“Come on, Belle. Pick a spot. We’re late.”
I pulled out my baggie and the paper towels. Belle stood hovering. Then she sat.
“Kate, did she go? Where is it? Where’s the poop?”
“I don’t think she pooped, Mom.”
Belle sat and watched a crowd of people walk by.
“Belle, come on.”
Belle looked up at me with her eyes without moving her head. She wouldn’t walk towards me. Kate pulled her leash. She stood like a statue.
I dropped our folding chairs on the grass. I picked up Belle’s hips. A golf ball sized turd hung under her tail like a damn Christmas ornament. The wind picked up and the scent of shit blew around us. I took a paper towel and grabbed the turd. Belle whined.
“Oh, no. Kate. It’s stuck. I might have take her home. Do you want to sit with Nana and Papa or go home with me?”
“I want to stay with Nana and Papa.”
“Ok, I need to get this off her before she gets in my car. Stay here for a sec and I’ll take you to the sideline with the other parents.”
A little boy walked up to us.
“Can I pet your puppy?”
“Oh, she’s not feeling that well…”
The boy ran off. I picked up Belle’s hips again. I grabbed a new paper towel.
“Ok. Count of three. One. Two. Three.”
I squeezed and pulled. Belle whined. The golfball turd collapsed into thick paste. I tried again.
Let me try to wipe her up. I wiped her with a third paper towel. By the time I was done, Belle was waddling back and forth like a damn penguin and her whole backside looked like she sat in a pile of spicy mustard.
“Here. Ok, let me throw these paper towels away and I’ll drop you off with Nana. I can’t take Belle to the game. I’ll take her home.”
I walked Kate to the sidelines. The other parents pulled their shirts over the noses as we passed.
“Hey, I have to go. Will you watch Kate? Belle took a steamy dump and it got stuck and it’s smeared all over and oh! Don’t let her jump on you! She’ll want to sit on our laps if I stay. Oh no, she’s butt dragging. It’s bad.”
My father-in-law took the leash from me.
“I’ll take her!”
“Are you sure? You need to keep her far away from us.”
“Ok, we’ll stay away.”
20 minutes. I spent 20 minutes of my life shampooing, snipping, and scrubbing a dog’s hairy ass.
The letter H – hairy butts. Don’t let your butt hair grow out of control. Or fur. Whatever.