Outrage

It’s 1am. I’m in my boxers, crouched in my living room, wiping-up a massive pile of diarrhea.

I lysol. I wipe. I lysol again.

The trash can fills. I get a strong whiff of the nast and shoot the dog a “fuck you and die” glare.

He cowers in the corner.

My dog’s illness only seems to manifest itself when I have an 8am class the next day. It started when Harley’s panting became too loud, so I put him in the kennel. He waited until I went back into the bedroom to start whining.

I shout for him to “suck it up!”’
He responds with a whimper, a poot, and a splatter.

And there I am cleaning up the haz-mat zone of the kennel. It feels like cleaning up a nuclear spill without the protective suit.

The next problem? I have to toss the trash bag and put Harley’s shit-caked kennel-mat in the washer, but I can’t find my keys. So I spend the next 20 minutes searching my apartment, avoiding the funk coming from the trash bag.

But of course the funk is unavoidable.

I briefly consider tying Harley to the door of the animal shelter with the poop-stained kennel-mat and a note that reads: “HELLS TO THE NAH!” but there is no practical way to transport the dripping kennel-mat and the dramatic effect is lost without it.

… I eventually realize that my keys are in the door. I toss the trash bag, and wash the kennel-mat, and upon my return to the apartment, I am amazed how less enraged I am now that the diarrhea smell is gone.

I woke up at 10am. Class started at 8am. And I don’t even have the satisfaction of an excuse since my classmates with screaming babies can make it on time.

Fuh.