While many people were woken up in the wee hours of this Christmas morning by the squeals of excited children, Scott and I were stirred to consciousness by the smell of... you guessed it, dog poop. Montana had dutifully slept next to our bed throughout the night, but Ferris must have been pacing by the back door hoping some magical elf would let him outside. No such luck. I wandered downstairs in barely more than my skivvies and immediately armed myself with paper towels, plastic bags and disinfectant wipes. One look at the two mats at the back door and I was convinced that they were goners. They are great mats for the dogs to dry off on after playing in the back yard; they have firm, deep pile in a pattern like tire treads. Perfect for trapping snow and ice from wet paws. Also perfect for trapping runny stools.
I did my best to clean up the mess before hurling the two mats outside onto the deck. Perhaps the snow or rain would cleanse them. It has never worked before, but I was far too tired to think of a more intelligent course of action. Not Scott, though. Declaring, "We've thrown out enough mats!" he got dressed, went outside, sandwiched the soiled mats together and headed off to the coin-operated car wash. In the meantime, I let Ferris outside to do whatever business he had left. When I let him back in fifteen minutes later, he vomited all over the freshly scrubbed floor. I'm not making any accusations here, but the puke smelled an awful lot like crap.
So I cleaned the floor again, consoled a very unhappy-looking Ferris and headed off to bed in the hopes of catching a few more winks. I could be forgiven for thinking it was Groundhog Day rather than Christmas when I awoke to the very same disgusting smell a few hours later. Let's just hope this isn't the beginning of a new Christmas tradition.
Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and the best of the season to those who don't. Happy new year to all!