Puppies get diarrhea. They just do; it’s kind of their job. I don’t hold it against them – the job I mean, not the diarrhea. I try not to touch the stuff, but sometimes it can’t be helped. And that’s kind of where this is going.
I have a puppy. She’s about 60 pounds of reckless uncoordination, frolicking through the house at breakneck speed, bouncing off the large beat-up love seat in the backroom, and barreling out the doggy door to, to, to
All legs and chest this dog. Oh and rectum.
Lolli is a Great Dane puppy that is going through an episode of explosive diarrhea that makes our large back yard look like the inside of a WWI trench system after a battalion-sized bout with dysentery.
It’s brown, wet, and frozen. It’s near the backdoor and away from the backdoor. The fresh fallen snow doesn’t have that crisp look. I guarantee you that.
To make matters worse, her best bud Dachshund pal decides he loves eating poop. He hovers around like a toddler at a soft-serve ice-cream machine in an all you can eat buffet joint.
Kate and I are relegated to chasing them both around the back yard with plastic grocery store bags in one hand, trying grab the stools, and bottles of hot sauce in the other hand, we vainly hope will stop Spike from indulging in the fecal smorgasbord.
I fear we are only seasoning it for him.
Anyway, we are on the get the food right merry-go-round. In the interim, we are at least thankful that most of the horror occurs on the outside of the door, and not on the inside.