The One About Poop
My life has a ridiculous number of poop stories. It’s not that I really think that poop jokes are all that funny. It’s that my life IS a poop joke. So you’ve been warned. This story is definitely going down as The One about Poop.
Recently, I moved in with a friend. It’s a pretty fun roommate situation. We’re both into animals. We joke around and have a lot of fun. The one downside is that there’s only one bathroom. That’s usually not an issue though.
The location is really nice. We’re close to town, but far enough out that the house is right up against the forest. In the morning, I can look outside my window and see the woods. It gets a little spooky at night, with the coyotes howling and the over-active imagination running wild, but I love it.
Around the time I moved in, my friend and I developed a bit of a bad habit of going and getting Costco hot dogs for dinner. For $1.50 you got a hot dog or polish sausage, and a drink. You really can’t beat that deal, and they are really tasty. The rather immediate downside is, shortly after driving away, the burping will start. And these aren’t ordinary burps. They smell like the dead. And they won’t stop. Give it an hour, and the farts start. They are so bad that we name them after the corpses of fictitious old ladies. Thelma. Olga. Gretchen. Matilda. (Apologies to any readers with those names….) Whatever is in those hot dogs really can not be good, but we quickly forget about the discomfort, and go back for more in a few days.
One evening, shortly after moving in, I was sitting in my room, working at my computer after one such hot dog dinner. That night I’d even splurged and gotten TWO hot dogs. I had already been regretting it, but then I got that feeling. I had to visit the restroom. Quick. I all but ran to the bathroom, doing my best to prevent a catastrophe along the way. The door was locked. My friend was having his own post hot dog problems.
I headed back to my room, holding on for dear life and wondering how long I was going to last. Another rumble in my stomach made it clear that wasn’t going to be long. I went and pounded on the door again, but he still couldn’t move. Going back to my room, my stomach made a horrible gurgling. It was time. Desperately, I ran outside and headed for the forest. I feverishly scraped a shallow hole in the icy ground, and dropped my pants.
You really don’t need the rest of the details, but that hot dog was not kind coming out.
Later, when my friend found out what had happened, he was appalled and embarrassed. I was laughing. He felt responsible for my misadventure, which just meant I brought it up more. “Yah, well you made me poop in a hole the woods!” can shut down just about any argument or make a grown man blush. Being an outdoorsy guy, I got over it a lot faster than my friend did.
The next couple of days were really nice, and I took the dogs exploring. Every time we passed The Hole in the woods, though, Bentley would try to go over and sniff it. That grossed me out more than the actual incident, and I made sure we kept our distance. There were plenty of other places to explore.
That Saturday, I clipped on the dogs’ extra long leashes and we hiked through the woods, finding little game trails to follow. The weather had warmed up, so all the ice had melted and made the ground really muddy, so our path was redirected several times to avoid wading in muck. We circled around the forest, and came back toward the house through a tangle of young trees and vines. Any dog would have had some difficulty navigating through this, but dear sweet Quincy is not just any dog. He tied a giant spiderweb knot in those bushes with his long leash. It took a few moments to get him untangled, weaving his leash in and out of the bushes. I finally got him out, though, and turned around.
Bentley was standing over The Hole. He or some other creature had dug it up. He lowered his head to take a bite.
“BENTLEY NOOOOOOOOO!!!!” I yanked his leash back, but not fast enough. He swallowed.
I rushed the dogs back to my room, completely disgusted, but totally confused about what I was supposed to do now. How do you wash a dog’s mouth out? Brushing his teeth didn’t seem like it would be thorough enough, and he wouldn’t really let me do that anyhow. The germaphobe in me was wondering if just his mouth was contaminated, or if I needed to actually bleach his entire body somehow. And was that even possible without hurting him. Meanwhile, I was still freaking out and yelling “OMGTHATISSODISGUSTINGICAN’TBELIEVEYOUDIDTHATYOUDISGUSTINGLITTLEBRAT!AREYOUSERIOUS?OHMYGOD!!”
I reached my room and hurried them inside. Bentley jumped straight onto my bed and burped…. But not just a burp. He had that look. Ears laid back a little, eyes wide, neck elongated. Something was about to come back up.
“NOT ON THE BED!” I dove for Bentley, and he jumped off the bed, beginning to puke mid-flight. I only saw a mouthful fly out, but suddenly there was poopy puke everywhere, mixed with kibble chunks. That’s the part that still baffles me. Where did all that puke come from?! Why did it look like he’d had an entire feast of poop?? Excited by the commotion, Quincy was dancing around, very narrowly missing the poopy puke.
“EVERYONE OUTSIDE!” Bentley got all excited again, joining Quincy in his dancing among the land mines. I managed to get them both outside at the same time and closed the door. Poop and puke everywhere. But not on the bed, thank goodness. That’s the one thing that went right that day. Not on the bed.
Thank you to my friend Chad Inks for illustrating this misadventure!