As many of you know, The Electrician and I started fostering dogs with Second Chance Animal Rescue Society (SCARS) back in our dollhouse days. We currently have a super-cute houseguest named Charlie.

charlie 2.jpg

Charlie is our 23rd foster dog, provided my math is correct. So far, he’s been a delight in so many ways. He’s gentle, smart with a capital “ART,” and very energetic. It’s almost like having our Sherman as a puppy all over again–as in the fun never stops, not even for a moment. We’re enjoying Charlie.

Then last night happened.

I was chatting on the phone with my auntie, gathering laundry from the semi-sorted piles in the basement, and hurrying to get everything done to be ready for a busy Thursday at work. When I stepped forward to grab a stray sock, the world paused for one horrid moment.

My bare left foot landed directly on a fresh dog turd.

I don’t know how I didn’t see it with my eyes or smell it with my nose before I found it with my foot. It’s one of life’s stinky little mysteries.

My end of the phone conversation fell suddenly silent.

I realized with horror as I lifted my foot from the carpet that I had dog poop, as in the whole impressive log, stuck to the bottom of my foot.

It was also squished between my three smallest toes.

I ended my phone call with the briefest of explanations.

As a dog person in general and a foster mom and particular, I don’t have a weak stomach for canine messes. Puppy vomit is old news. I can pick up any number of turds in the yard without batting an eye. Having fresh crap mashed all over my foot was another experience entirely.

I was at a loss for my next move, but I managed to string enough nouns together for The Electrician to gather I needed paper towel, stat. I stood on one foot like the world’s grossest flamingo while he wiped what he could from my sole.

Then, in what will go down in history as the most praying and hopping I’ve attempted simultaneously, I set out on one foot for the bathroom. My every move centred on keeping the compromised carpals off the carpet. There was one point where I lost my balance and careened shoulder-first into the pool table, but I managed to reach the bathroom without creating more mess.

I stepped into the shower still wearing my workout shorts, lest I try to remove them and initiate a laundry situation as well. After attempting to scrub my foot with my body wash, I decided that Strawberry Olay was probably insufficient muscle for my current state, and grabbed The Electrician’s masculine soap instead. It’s called “Krakenguard.” Really. At least it is so aggressively scented that the original foot odour I was addressing didn’t stand a chance.

This it the kind of story that will be funny after a little time has passed. In fact, I’m seeing the humour tonight, which is why I’m sharing it with you.

Last night, however, all I could manage to do was scrub and shake my head.





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