poo under this: a husband's attempt to be helpful

Please excuse my political incorrectness as I speak about the stereotypical "husband help" I received this morning. Well, technically, I received it in the middle of the night, but didn't discover it until dawn. Well, technically, not dawn, because I wake up three hours before dawn...you get the point.

Let me start by summarizing my situation: I'm at the tail end of a very busy holiday week. I've been making a lot of visits, and one of those clients is the "diarrhea dogs," or so I've affectionately nicknamed them. In addition to the cat whom I've sat for before, the family decided to try to leave their two chihuahua mixes home in my care for the first time, something they'd been hesitant to do because of their nervous-bordering-on-aggressive nature. The client warned me that they would go berserk upon my first–and possibly all–my visits. They may even try to bite my ankles, so they would kindly leave a broom out for self defense. 

You might think I'm crazy, but I was looking forward to it. Not to the possibility of beating off small animals with permission from the owners, but to a challenge. It's been a while since I've dealt with problem pets. I assured the client that I'd win the dogs over, and I have.

They barked and barked during my first visit several days ago and even nipped at me a bit (nothing to warrant a broom beating), but we're moving past all that. After a couple of visits, their explosive vocals reduced to ten minute sessions, and then after a few visits more, they were sitting in my lap accepting massages and giving me kisses. Voila, success! It's a good thing they are so lovable. Now.

In addition to the barking, their nervous bellies have been expelling an extraordinary amount of liquid feces just about everywhere (thank goodness for tile floors throughout). I have had to move furniture to get behind couches and entertainment centers, and I've been through two bottles of disinfectant, three rolls of paper towels, ten cloth rags, four rolls of toilet paper and one scrub pad. Not to mention the fact that my hands look as if I've had acid poured over them from all of the washing in scalding water. 

Aside from the diarrhea dogs and a handful of other clients I've been seeing this week, I have three dogs staying at my house. I have cared for them before, and they are pretty easy-going. Two of them are seniors who sleep most of the time, and everyone is potty trained and eats well. A breath of fresh air. 

Until I woke up this morning. 

This is what I found:

Actual evidence destroyed. This is a dramatic re-creation.

Actual evidence destroyed. This is a dramatic re-creation.

Fantastic. More poo, and this time it's in my house. We'd made it so far without an incident.

Hubby is in the restaurant biz, which requires him to work odd hours at times, and last night was one of those times. I went to bed before he got home, as did the littles and the dogs, and all was right with the world. And this morning, there is this. And hubby is peacefully slumbering. So before embarking to another house where I will likely be scrubbing poo off the floor for an hour, I get to scrub poo off my own floor. I had nothing better to do while coffee brewed at 4:00 a.m., anyway. 

I should be thankful for this helpful warning. I should be glad that the "this" over the "poo" was not my foot, and, instead, a dirty old rag. So I took care of the "poo under this." Stand back. I'm a professional. I'm sure that's what hubby figured. Since he's in the restaurant biz, he just might find a cute little sign above our kitchen sink when he gets home tonight: "dirty dishes in here." I like to be helpful, too.