An incident in the breakfast area

This morning the dog shat dramatically on the floor of our breakfast nook. It’s all tile, so the cleanup was not as odious as it might have been. Easy for me to say; I was still in bed. Tess handled the mess before leaving for work. Her texts later did not assign blame, but the tone may have been a bit terse.

I don’t blame her. This is the second time this has happened in as many weeks. I have now concluded that the problem is the ham bones Bella sometimes gets from the owner of the breakfast joint around the corner. Bella loves these bones, and becomes uncharacteristically animated whenever she sees Tommy. So even though I suspected them as a cause of explosive diarrhea, I let her have another one a couple of days ago. Let’s just say I am a slow learner.

We always had dogs around when I was a kid, but Mom never let them in the house. Cats either. I’m beginning to see why. For all the feelings of warmth and acceptance pets can engender, there’s nothing like a steaming mess on the floor, or a ruined recliner, to make one contemplate the advantages of a petless home.

Our dog has spent much of the morning on the front porch, peering quizzically inside. For her, the events of this morning are quite forgotten. I’m not mad at her, of course, but neither can I risk another toxic-waste site in our living quarters. At least it’s a nice day out. She can hang around out there for awhile. Experience has shown that these things take time to play out.

Dogs. We love them for their simplicity, yet expect a certain amount of nuance in their behavior. Like communicating the relative urgency of an imminent bowel movement. Is that too much to ask? Oh well. Live and learn. And no more ham bones forever.