We all know how I feel about dog ear wax *barf in my mouth.* Well, faithful readers (all two of you?), I’ve discovered a second. Buddy, our roughly 13-year-old American Stafforshire Terrier, is visiting us for a few days while Ken’s grandmother is in the hospital. Last night, whilst he was frumfering around in Kenny’s big chair, we caught him licking the arm of the chair. Upon further examination, it was blood! Panic ensues, and we boot him off the chair. I start hunting for animal-friendly, blood-removing chemicals and paper towels. Kenny moves in on Buddy to investigate the problem. “He’s got a hemorroid!” comes the cry from the living room floor. “What do we do?” “Can we use Preparation H?” As if I know. So, as I am lying on the chair, with my face inches away from a smear of bloody dog poo, Kenny is on the floor with the dog, putting ointment on his butthole. We both had to laugh, though. “What did you guys do that night?” “Well, I scrubbed bloody turd off our furniture.” “And I wiped my dog’s asshole.” Yeah, we’re that kind of people. Now, this in an of itself, did not gross me out.
I went into the kitchen to wash my hands, and in comes Kenny, peeling off rubber gloves over a handful of bloody paper towels. Blood doesn’t bother me in the least . . . but there was something about that moment that made my stomach heave and I had to look away.
I love my dogs. So, evidentally, does my husband. Very much.