I am sitting here in the middle of a freezing breeze in my kitchen contemplating the irony of eating the last of the chicken liver pate and trying hard not to giggle.
Life sometimes is just shit.
Literally.
I arrived home not more than 45-minutes ago and it might as well be a lifetime. So much seems to have happened.
As I started to open the door I think it was the stench that alerted me to the fact that all was not well in Denmark or indeed my kitchen.
Radio Four droned on oblivious.
I opened the door further, and heard a frantic scrabble, a scratching, a slightly wet thump and more scrabbling as whippet feet and whippet nails tried to gain purchase to launch themselves to greet me home. The largest one was damp and in fact as I drew my hand away from him I realised that what I thought was damp was actually poo, very runny poo that was smeared all across his back and down one side; I stupidly ran my hand across my leg to get it off me at the same moment that I surveyed the scene in front of me.
Confusion can last a lifetime, similarly a heartbeat.
Before me lay a scene from Armageddon - it's the only way I can describe it - it didn't in the least look like my kitchen.
There was dog poop everywhere, splattered, splurged, splodged and smeared. There was even evidence of slippage which might explain the state of Jet Bag, the largest of my four whippets.
Having ascertained the problem and registered it, though not really acknowledged it, my first action was to open the patio doors and get the dogs outside fast. I left them ping ponging up and down outside. A thing they do often.
And that is when it the full impact of what had happened hit me.
At least two of my dogs had had the squits, possibly more, it was a little difficult to tell as evidence sort of ran together.
I vacated the scene swiftly to contemplate my next move and once outside the backdoor promptly burst into tears. It seemed the most logical thing to do - it hasn't been the most restful of weeks and this was the icing the cake - sorry...
However, a swift blub over and it was once more time to gird my loins and tackle the problem at hand. Donning a make-shift bio hazard suit made up of a pair of veterinary gloves, red wellington boots, waterproof trousers and a plastic festival cape, that I found rather fortuitously in my handbag, I was able to make in-roads on the kitchen floor.
And not long after I actually found it again.
Copious amounts of kitchen paper, capfuls of Miltons and a serious splash of lemon scented Flash later and the place is once more habitable.
Jet was manhandled towards the outside hose and while he was busy trying to snaffle a snack out of an old Kong I squirted him clean. I was extremely lucky and had him cornered for a good 10 seconds before he leapt out of the way, getting all the detritus off him. The art of these things is not to let the poop dry on the dog before you turn the hose on him.
As for me well I stripped off as soon as, flung everything in the wash, dashed upstairs and got into the shower at full blast to strip away the lingering stench.
So now I am here in the kitchen, wrapped in clean towels eating the left overs from the fridge and it can only happen to me that I am eating what looks exactly what I have just cleaned up off the floor!
A toast to a shit life!
I leave you with a picture I took of a rose in my garden just before it turned cold so much more pleasant than a steaming pile of poo...
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| A Rose from the Garden - wish my kitchen could have smelled as sweet! |
