Poop. That is now my life. Once upon a time, I dealt a lot in the area of poop. I was the poop master. I was skilled. Then the day came when everyone in the house was potty trained and I no longer had to handle the poop. The massive, massive amounts of poop. No more diapers, no more wiping, no more cleaning massive amounts of stains off our less- than-stain resistant carpet. It was a joyous day, a day that was declared a national holiday, all for me. You, Hossman, are no longer the king of poop. You are the king of underwear and all is good in your life.
It was a glorious poop-free summer. The toilet finally got the attention it deserved and was happy. I was happy.
Then it got cold and winter came. With the winter, came new poop.
Two dogs are responsible. Two spoiled damn dogs that are nothing but big wussies. No, they cannot go poop outside anymore, it would hurt their sensibilities. It's to cold to take a dump in the yard. They still have to go poop though, so why not just crap all over the house? It's warm in the toy room and that is where their little idiot brains tell them to poop. But soon, they discover that pooping is also fun in Little Hoss's room. And when the joy runs out of that pooping, why not poop right next to the fucking door? This is a poop that sends a message to me. It says "I could poop right outside that door. But I won't. Here, take my crap." Plop.
For the last week I have woken up to this every morning. Not just one little spot, but 3, 4, 5 piles of crap hidden around the house like some sort of poop scavenger hunt. All for me as no one in the house will touch it. Life is dirty folks, and sometimes you have to get dirty to deal with it. But Hossmom has to go to work and she can't be smelling like poop. Little Hoss has school and can't go to school smelling like poop. Bubba Hoss is in the phase of "let's throw everything" so I dare not even ask him to pitch in.
That's why every morning, around 7:30, you will find me on my hands and knees with a bottle of cleaner, some paper towels, and a very grumpy attitude. The dogs will be right next to me, wagging their tails and smiling, so help me god they are smiling.
While I'm doing this I will also field questions like "Are you making my lunch today? Where is my breakfast? Turn the TV on, cartoons!" I might snap. I'm just saying it might happen.
It doesn't matter if we take the dogs out right before bedtime. It doesn't matter if I take them out first thing in the morning. It doesn't matter if Jesus himself came down from on high and asked them to evacuate their stinky bowels in the backyard. They would still leave mountain-sized piles of shit. And now, I am once again the king of poop. I am back in that dark place, a place where no sunshine beams in from clean windows. A place where there is only darkness and lemon scented cleaner that cannot even attempt to mask the toxic stank of my dog's ass.
A place where I am down on the floor with tears in my eyes and a dog trying to lick my face while I clean up the demon spawn that it left around 4am in the morning.
A word of caution though. We once had a cat. We no longer have a cat. Please keep that in mind the next time you want to leave the trots all over my hardwood floors.