Doodie vs. Duty

I breathed a sigh of relief returning my dad's dog yesterday. I thought The Chidler would be ecstatic to see him go, but none such luck. I think I felt his heart sink when he saw me put ol'snaggle tooth into the car, his huge glassy Milk Dud eyes begging to come with as he stared out the window watching us leave.

When I returned home I was greeted by a couple of stale turds on the kitchen floor and a small puddle of pee. Naughties! I know he might have thought this revenge was sweet, but it was short lived when he realized I was not going to give him his evening cup o' chow. The war was by no means over.

Two weeks ago I bought Snowflake this damn charming little goth bandana to wear. It was black with the Jolly Roger and hearts where the crossbones meet. He wore it once and it will never grace his neck again. I came downstairs this morning and found one teensie shred on The Chidler's fainting couch.

Where did it go? Somewhere I am all too familiar with. That's right, it is peristalsing it's way down through The Chidler's bowels. With no Catalpa leaves to serve as paper towel, I am praying that it works it's way out of his asspipe without any assistance from me. My anticipation is palpable. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

On top of this duty, this is my week in the pool for jury duty, that civil doodie everyone seems to love to hate. I was not selected this morning but have to return up to three more times this week.

I was thinking, hmmmm, you never know, I could meet some cutie. Ah, WRONG! I sat next to a gentleman in the gallery who was wearing a tight green stretchy vintage like work ensemble. Scruffy, thick oily hair with full on bedhead and reeking of cigarette smoke, the bailiff asked him if he needed a work excuse to which he replied in that scratchy whiskey drinkin' voice,

"Nope, I'm self employed."

I mean there is duty and then there is doodie. I have my hands full of it.