Our second puppy, Raven, was born at the end of January. She was the cutest little black lab you’ve ever seen, with big eyes and an irresistible head tilt.
But then she arrived home right after Easter with the personality of a tornado. She jumped. Zoomed. Chewed. Drooled. Peed. Pooped. Barked.
The one thing she didn’t do? Sleep.
She was just like one of my kids when they were babies who never slept, and I was exhausted.
It was rough.
By summer, she was five months old and we could board her with our other dog while we went to a family reunion. When we picked the dogs up, they said Raven had blood in her stool and was too anxious around other dogs.
Yikes. What did that even mean?
The next morning, I woke up at 5:30 a.m. and heard whining from downstairs. My husband had already left for work, so it was up to me to investigate. Our dogs never whine in their crates. As I headed downstairs, a smell hit me with such force I almost gagged.
Turns out our anxious pup had been holding everything inside while we were gone and now the sunroom looked like a Jackson Pollock painting—if he’d worked exclusively with diarrhea and vomit.
Both dogs were covered in it. Both crates. The walls. The baseboards. The floor. There was poop and vomit everywhere.
I almost vomited. I tried not to cry while I cursed the stupid puppy and cursed myself for wanting to make my family happy with magical Christmas surprises. Then I got to work.
The first step was getting the dogs outside. By the time they were out, I looked like I’d lost a wrestling match with a sewer monster.
It may have been the most disgusting moment of my life.
Next, I bathed the dogs outside with the hose. They were not fans of this, so I had to hang onto their collars for dear life while I sprayed the poop off them. I ducked my face, trying to avoid the backlash of spraying poop, but there’s only so much one can do in this situation.
Then I hauled the crates outside and scrubbed them while muttering vengeful thoughts.
When I was done outside, I woke up my sons at 6:30 a.m. so they could take the dogs on a walk while I cleaned the sunroom. I think they could sense the anger brewing inside me, because they didn’t complain. That, or the stench of their sewer monster mother made them realize the seriousness of the situation.
Cleaning the sunroom required two solid hours of scrubbing—walls, floors, baseboards—because the poop wasn’t just fresh; some of it had dried. Dried poop requires elbow grease, determination, and the mental fortitude of a marathon runner. And I had just run a marathon six months previous, so I should know. In fact, running a marathon and getting a puppy might be tied on my list of terrible life decisions.
By 11 a.m., the room was sanitized and the dogs had been to the vet and back. I was exhausted and ready to get back to my regular routine.
But later that day, our tornado puppy lounged on her favorite summer spot—the air conditioning vent. I was still mad at her about poop-ageddon and she knew it.
She looked straight at me and peed. Into the vent!
I stood there, staring in disbelief, as pee dripped into the bowels of my home. I can’t even describe how much I hated that adorable Christmas-magic puppy. I spent the next thirty minutes with my arm shoved into an air vent trying to soak up dog pee with paper towels.
So here’s a bit of advice. When the twinkle lights, hot cocoa, and desire to give your family the best Christmas ever overtakes your brain, just pause for a moment and remember this story.
This year there will be no magical Christmas surprises. Just boring gifts like underwear, toothbrushes, and ugly basketball shoes that look like they’re from the 80s.
Unless, of course, I cave and give into the Christmas magic. Then all bets are off.
Knowing me, we might end up with a goat under the tree.
