I am not a dog person.
I’m not really a pet person at all.
Some of you may have just decided to unsubscribe from my blog. I fully understand that not being very fond of pets, especially dogs, is considered to most very un-American.
You see, I was always skiddish around them when I was a kid – like even a small kid when you are supposed to love all cute and cuddly things. I’m past the skiddish part, but I cannot stand to be licked by a dog or have it up in my face.
And they smell. They totally have the smelliest farts in the history of the universe.
You know I’m right.
And then Grunt and I got together.
And he had two dogs.
That stayed inside the house most of the time.
And one that slept with him.
And I seriously considered whether or not I could marry a man who slept with a dog.
But then all those chocolate milks just won me over and I had to learn to deal, ok and love, the dogs.
I couldn’t deal with the dog sleeping with us though – that had to end. I have my limits.
And then the circus entered the picture.
And she was sharing her bottle with the dogs at six months old.
And crawling on their bed, wallowing around in it.
And I cringed.
And then for a solid year all she wanted to play with was her stuffed dogs and the real dogs.
My friend Ashley even mocked me for having a child that loved dogs when I detested them so much.
They aren’t kidding when they say God has a sense of humor.
I have come to somewhat love the dogs. Well, I love them because Grunt Labor and the kid love the dogs.
So the other night after dinner as I was straightening up the kid’s room and asking myself why a two year old just can’t pick up after herself, I stepped in something. Wet.
And I said, please sweet Lord Jesus, don’t let this be dog pee.
I got down on the floor and sniffed.
Remember how I said God has a sense of humor?
After a string of not-so-nice words, I decided to try something new on the pet accidents.