I had several different titles for this particular post. Some of the other options included:
“Congress Owes Me A Couch” and “Buttholes and Marshmallows”
Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why there are three different titles that all have to do with the same story yet have nothing in common. Well, let me tell you a little story about today. It’s a doozy, so go snag that glass of wine I can’t have and let’s get this party started.
We have this couch. It’s a big brown microfiber behemoth of a couch. And we’ve had it forever. The dogs love to lay on it, it’s been home to baby messes of all varieties, kid snacks, and in all honesty is probably home to the next bio-hazard waiting to happen. It’s also super hot and isn’t conducive for napping. It’s time for this sucker to go.
So today, I searched the great landscape that is the interwebs and found a new sofa that would fit nicely into our living room, match the chairs we have, and most importantly- not be a stinky home to all the lost Cheerio souls, chip fragments, and granola bar chunks that my adorable yet disgusting children tend to deposit there even though we have a standing moratorium of “NO FOOD IN THE LIVING ROOM” Yeah, whatever. . .
Anyhow, on this eve of a potential government shut down, I decided to do the responsible adult thing and not spend a few hundred clams on a sofa because a. we do own a couch, and b. if there is a shut down then neither JT nor I will be getting paid for who knows how long. #adultingsucks
Feeling pretty good about my adult decision I make it through the rest of the day pretty smoothly. I ran errands with the kids, cleaned out JT’s truck (that should be a story in and of itself) and came home to get dinner started. I even contemplated getting out the steamer and trying to clean the couch.
It was around this time when the kids and dogs had come back inside that I noticed there were blood splotches on the carpet. Cue instant panic, because we don’t own this house and the carpet is white. Who freakin does that?? I realize my first concern should have been, “who is bleeding?” But no one was screaming or crying so the carpet took priority.
I check the kids- nothing. (Which is honestly surprising because one of them is almost always scratched, cut, bruised, etc. – please don’t look at this as a reason to call CPS- they’re fine, I swear) So I move on to the dogs- Liberty looks fine. Moving on to Zeke there’s nothing glaring until he moves his paw, and then I see it. . .he has broken his nail and it’s at a 90-degree angle from his toe, where it connects to his paw. If you don’t happen to already know- Zeke is a 130lb Great Dane. There’s nothing small about this animal. His nails are as wide across and as thick as the wooden handle of a spoon.
What proceeds to occur next is me, screaming at Oliver to get the carpet cleaner, while frantically calling JT to ask where the first aid kit is and attempting to wrangle the bleeding dog who weighs as much as I do, into the kitchen. Once the kit is found, (which, btw, only has some gauze from Toby’s shots and a few band-aids in it. Don’t come to my house if you need saving because it’s apparent you’ll just bleed to death) It becomes a life and death struggle to pin down the dog and wrap his foot. Mind you, I’m 25 weeks pregnant, my balance is off, and patience is non-existent. I’ll leave you to paint the mental image you’d like. I have purposely not included a photo of his foot. You are welcome.
I don’t know how I’m going to fix this, and it looks bad. He’s definitely not happy with it and I’m not about to get my head chomped on as I try to saw the rest of the nail off. Thanks, but no thanks. After consulting the internet again, Pigeon and I are able to load him up and off to the vet we go.
WARNING: Grossness ahead.
Still reading? Okay, don’t say you weren’t warned. . .
Zeke has this weird thing about the vet. When he gets scared, he does this thing where he *ahem* lets loose his anal glands. It’s really a thing, and if you’re one of those weirdos who just has to go look crap up, then click here.
I’ve saved you the trouble of searching.
At any rate, he did this again, and the vet tech didn’t even flinch but hurried off to get some things to clean him up as I tried not to wretch to death in the vet lobby while half a dozen other people looked on in disgust. Upon her return, she glowingly exclaimed she’d clean him up and spray him with some stuff to make him smell better. I should have known better.
He didn’t smell as bad, but he certainly didn’t smell “better.” What he did smell like however, was a mix of butthole and marshmallow as the scent that was chosen was “toasted marshmallows.”
So how does this all fit together?
My theory: If Congress wasn’t on the verge of shutting down the government, I would have gone to buy said couch. I didn’t because I was being “an adult.” But if I had, then the dog would not have been outside during the same time and likely would not have hurt himself resulting in not only the money spent that I was saving, but a butt blow out and marshmallow cover-up that has made me seriously consider never eating a marshmallow ever again.
I realize Congress does not actually owe me a couch. But that’s my story and I’m sticking with it!