Squish

Started my day at 1am with that unmistakable sound of imminent dog barf. Dog barf that I was too late to intercept until hurl round two. I’m fumbling around in the dark trying to capture a now panicked miniature weiner dog. He’s not sure if he’s sick or we are playing on the bed. Just then I place my hand into something squishy and wet. Well, found the barf. Where is it? On hubby’s legs. He’s still snoring. 

Hubby is lucky I cannot bring myself to even stay on the same room as the barf so I’m really left with no choice but to clean it up. I tell my friend Alexa to flip on the bedside lamps and the hall light to assess the situation. Gross. Hubby…. Still snoring. 

I remove the squishy, half digested stomach contents, with paper towel and a wet wash rag… FROM HIS LEGS… while I gag myself. Hubby…. Still snoring. Weiner dog… Still barfing, thankfully now on the floor.  

I spent the rest of the night cleaning up dog barf and cradling the sick dog in my arms as I listened to the sound of weiner dog tummy grumbling and man snores. 

I contact hubby at work, between the gaps of unconsciousness I’m experiencing through the day, to ask how he managed to sleep through all of that. He’s not only totally clueless, but has the audacity to laugh at my overnight struggles. He ends with, “this will make a great story for your blog.” I guess I’m flattered to know he’s reading it. Unlike any email I have ever sent him since the existence of email. He’s already confessed to not reading any of those because he is sure I already have it handled. He’s right. Just like I handled the barf on his legs.