Oh, I'm a sock that's dirty. . . .

February 3, 2011


Most mornings here are challenging.

Crabby people nagging me about other crabby people.

Me trying to maintain a peaceful equilibrium, believing that a day started with peace and calm is always better than a day started with kvetching and turmoil.

But there is always the unknown variable.

The one that is typically not even on my horizon of awareness.

Nor a blip on my radar of regard.

Yesterday morning, already challenging because Em had to actually leave the house and go to school and Stephen had his 9 am class, the unknown variable reared its ugly head, a reminder that no matter how much I think I have things under control, I really don't.






Frankie.

The unknown variable.

More specifically his front and back ends.

Blowing like Mt. Vesuvius.

The first team to go out on the field was vomit.

They were particularly aggressive.

I literally got out of bed to puddles of puppy puke dotting the landscape of our 1970s goldenrod carpet, a trail from bed to closet.

A trail I had to negotiate to get to my closet for the usual morning game of "What Shall I Wear Today?"

And the stench.

I somehow made it to the laundry basket on the other side of the room, and immediately started hauling out the dirty towels.

This was no job for flimsy paper towel.

In fact, I would have loved to see one of those tv commercial mothers stroll into my upstairs with her perfectly coiffed hair, sensible yet attractive clothes, makeup artfully applied, carrying in her recently manicured hands a roll of Bounty paper towel, the "bigger, quicker pickerupper" to tackle the technicolor yawn on my bedroom floor.

Instead, it was me, in my zebra stripped flannel pjs throwing towels hither and yon like Wile. E. Coyote would toss black holes of escape in the old Bugs Bunny cartoons.

Except for me there was no escaping.

Not the stench, not the reek, not the directives from Stephen sitting up in our bed providing an unneeded and unwanted commentary to my cleaning activities.

And Frankie wondering where he was going to put the next pile.







This was just the beginning.

Or rather, the middle.

Because apparently there was a pile of putrescent poo on the rubber boot tray last evening, found by Stephen while I was upstairs happily taking up residence in the Land of Nod.

A fact I was apprised of while running amid the piles of puke.

The rest of the morning was a combination of trying to get ready for the day while keeping several eyes on Frankie.

Waiting for the next outburst.

Nothing else happened during the time between cleaning and leaving.

At least nothing I had to deal with.

Stephen. . .

Let's just say he had a rough day.

A very rough day.






But in between the remainder of Stephen's story is a small interlude.

Involving Keith.

Who strolled in yesterday morning at 6.15.

We arrived at work.

He did his usual removal of his shoes to curl up in the big blue comfy chair in Mum's office for a couple hours' snooze time before his class.

As he was removing his shoes, he noticed odd, brown stains on his socks.

Stains that were not on his socks when he donned those socks on this feet that very morning.

Stains that carried with them a rather pungent odor.

Of shit.

It would seem that in between the puking and our leaving, there was a brief, but powerful bout of doggie diarrhea that landed squarely in Keith's shoes.

Imagine how he reacted, hungover, tired, to the sight to shitty socks.

What could I do?

Give him my socks and slip into the nylon knee highs that were in my desk drawer, that's what I could do.

And that's what I did.

Keith grabbed Kleenex and started scrubbing out the insides of his shoes.

Which, mysteriously, carried no trace of doggie doo doo.

Leaving how the shit adhered to Keith's socks a mystery.

And one I just do not care to unravel, thank you very much.

Stephen comes into my office after his one and only class yesterday, and asks me how come my office stinks of dog shit.

I point to the bag.

Tell him the story.

He, of course, laughs so hard he has tears streaming down his face.

For which I made him take the bag home.

There's enough crap (pardon the pun) in my office as it is.






Stephen arrived home from his one and only class yesterday at around 11.00.

When he opened the door, the shit stench just about knocked him off the front step.

Wary, full of trepidation, he ventured into the kitchen, fearful and unfortunately all-to-knowledgeable regarding the source of the stink.

It would appear that our Frankie, having exhausted the stores in his stomach, had decided it was time for the back team to come out on the playing field.

And did they ever.

There was even splatter all over the wall behind his crate.

Not to mention the inside of his crate.

Stephen said it was reminiscent of the Frankie-shit-all-over-Tikka-in-the-back-of-the-car-during-the-vacation-from-hell-this-past-summer incident.

Except, mercifully, there was no splattering of Tikka this time.

Small mercies, right?






Stephen spent the rest of the morning and into the afternoon cleaning up after Mt. Frankie

All of Frankie's bedding had to be washed, as did the numerous puke-soaked towels from upstairs.

Carpets scrubbed.

Walls washed.

Frankie feeling so ashamed of himself Stephen had to sit with him numerous time to comfort him and remind him that we were not angry with him.

The source of his blowup has yet to be determined.

Although there are some suspects.

Em's bedroom.

Something I have to address and am dreading with every fibre of my being.

The recycling, a former veritable playground for Frankie in those stolen, alone moments in the basement.

Regardless, it was most unavoidable, a fact that has not escaped Stephen.

And one he has ensured hasn't been overlooked by me.




Frankie was back to his usual self by last evening.

Eating and drinking heartily.

Cavorting with Tikka.

Cavorting at the cats.

Whatever malady that had beset him in the morning had run it's course.

All over the house.

But it was over.

Hallellujah.





Whatever today brings, it can't be worse than puke puddles and shitty socks.

At least I hope not.

Because I have no idea what worse would look like.

Nor do I want to find out.



Title Lyric: I'm A Sock That's Dirty by BRAK