Now that my girlfriend's mom has flown back to Korea, my two-month era of pseudo-singlehood has ended and I've gone back to living the quiet domesticated life of pseudo-husbandhood. The highlight of last week for me, for instance, was spending an entire evening scrubbing doggy diarrhea out of my living room carpet.
We were dogsitting Terry the golden retriever that week. One night the girl decided to give him some Asian pears to chomp on.
"Stop feeding him so much fruit. It's going to jack his intestines," I protested.
"Don't worry, I've fed him pieces of fruit in the past and nothing ever happened," she claimed.
"Great, now you've just jinxed his colon," I replied.
The problem with being right all the time is that one day you'll come home from work and be greeted by a happy dog and a wave of overpowering ass stench.
I really didn't want to look. But how could I not see it? Right in the middle of the living room was what appeared to be a giant, shiny mound of brown curry. It's as if it was manufactured by those Japanese companies that made plastic food replicas.
I just stood over it with a mixture of horror and pure awe. Terry's an 85-pound dog. But somehow it looked as if a 250-pound man with food poisoning had squatted over my carpet and unleashed his anal fury. It was that enormous. Life would've been easier if Terry had been a gold fish.
As the curse words quietly flew out of my mouth, Terry stood in the farthest corner of the room, with the guiltiest look in his eyes. He's easily the most well-behaved dog I've come across, so I know he didn't do it to teach me a lesson for kicking him off my couch. Most likely the poor bastard tried to hold it in for as long as he could, before it just exploded out of his ass like a cannon. I'm sure he didn't appreciate that for the rest of the evening I would only call him "Turdy."
Obviously the worst part of cleaning was the beginning. On second thought, the worst part of cleaning was that my girlfriend was at work and wouldn't be home for another three hours, thereby putting full clean-up responsibility in my hands. If he wasn't a fictional character, I would've called the Wolf from "Pulp Fiction." Gripping a massive wad of paper towels, I scooped it all up with both hands and dumped it in a garbage bag. This released a fresh blast of brown gas that made my eyes water and my stomach lodged itself in my throat.
The rest of the night was spent scrubbing repeatedly with carpet cleaner. When that was done several hours later, I grabbed the Febreze and sprayed enough of it in the air to mutate my lungs into gills. And then my girlfriend finally got home.
"What were you complaining about? It doesn't look that bad at all."
I may never eat curry again.
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