No sooner had my foot touched the first step of the first flight of stairs, and I immediately knew I was in for a long night. The stench was unmistakable and increased in intensity the closer I got to my front door (which was locked). The theme from Jaws started playing in my head as I opened the door, and peered around the corner into the living room.
There he was, digging and burying wildly in his crate, hiding the massive shit-plosion. He froze in place, and looked at me with hot guilt in his eyes. I took him out immediately, cleaned him up with a wet washcloth, and we left the mess to take a walk.
While cleaning the crate and blankets, it dawned on me that the incident must have happened mere minutes prior to my arrival home. There is no way to describe the guilt I felt -- as in, "Geez, Jamie, if you'd just left work a little earlier, your poor dog wouldn't have had to go through this inside," and my heart broke. Just a little. I might have cried. Just a little. Now, as I think more about it, I cannot comprehend what my mother must have felt when something happened to one of us kids while she was at work. Simply cannot comprehend.
Luckily, we don't blame her for working -- rather, we appreciate the opportunities and skills we gained because of our "latch-key" status. But after a bath, a trip to the pet store for a new crate mat, and some cuddling, I can't shake the feeling that he's still mad at me. GAH.
What kills me most is that I'm always the one telling others, "It's just a dog, he'll be fine." Most of the time, I'm also convincing myself of the same thing. But some of the time, he's not just a dog -- he's my little buttface, poopypants, hairy monster, and best friend. He loves me more than I'll EVER love myself. I guess I just need to make peace with my inner "crazy dog person" and embrace it.
There he was, digging and burying wildly in his crate, hiding the massive shit-plosion. He froze in place, and looked at me with hot guilt in his eyes. I took him out immediately, cleaned him up with a wet washcloth, and we left the mess to take a walk.
While cleaning the crate and blankets, it dawned on me that the incident must have happened mere minutes prior to my arrival home. There is no way to describe the guilt I felt -- as in, "Geez, Jamie, if you'd just left work a little earlier, your poor dog wouldn't have had to go through this inside," and my heart broke. Just a little. I might have cried. Just a little. Now, as I think more about it, I cannot comprehend what my mother must have felt when something happened to one of us kids while she was at work. Simply cannot comprehend.
Luckily, we don't blame her for working -- rather, we appreciate the opportunities and skills we gained because of our "latch-key" status. But after a bath, a trip to the pet store for a new crate mat, and some cuddling, I can't shake the feeling that he's still mad at me. GAH.
What kills me most is that I'm always the one telling others, "It's just a dog, he'll be fine." Most of the time, I'm also convincing myself of the same thing. But some of the time, he's not just a dog -- he's my little buttface, poopypants, hairy monster, and best friend. He loves me more than I'll EVER love myself. I guess I just need to make peace with my inner "crazy dog person" and embrace it.
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