I came home from work sticky, sweaty, dirty, and exhausted. I opened the door and a wave of putrid air hit me like a sledgehammer. A sledgehammer that has been soaking in the bowl of a full to the brim Port-O-Potty, located outside of a TacoBell, in the hot summer sun, for weeks, in New Jersey.
-Good God, this place smells like shit!
Not in the, “You drive like shit,” or the “this chicken salad sandwich tastes like shit,” or the “Man, you look like shit,” kinda way. And certainly not in the “Goodness, the aroma of this place leaves something to be desired,” kinda way either. When I opened my door, it was like someone had loaded up a slop bucket full of hot, peppery, baby diarrhea, and had launched it directly up my nostrils. I could feel the stink instantly coating the insides of my sinus cavities. There was a very happy dog waiting for me, ready for a walk around the neighborhood and love in the form of back scratches and belly rubs.
-Holy fucking shit, Ollie. What the fuck did you do?
I am dog-sitting Ollie the Wonderdog. My buddy works for Oprah and she has taken everyone that works for her, including my buddy and his girlfriend, on an all expenses paid three-week luxury cruise on the Mediterranean Sea, including five charted first class jets for transportation, an entire cruise boat to themselves, every meal covered… fuck it, it’s obvious that I’m jealous. No need to keep dishing it out. They are happy, I’m about to walk into a literal shit-storm.
-That is just awful, Ollie. Just fucking awful. Holy Jesus balls, that fucking stinks.
I am happy to dog sit. Maybe there will something waiting for me when my buddy gets back from this opulent trip, something made out of solid gold. There was something waiting for me when I got back from work today, sticky, sweaty, dirty, and exhausted. Something wet and brown and made entirely out of pure horrible.
-Where is it? Where the fuck is it, Ollie. Good fucking lord, it stinks. Where is… Oh. My. God.
Ollie had taken a pretty soft poop while I was walking him during my lunch break today. I couldn’t pick it all up with the baggie, I just kinda smeared it around for a while. Bright brown, completely unsolid, with the consistency of melted chocolate, and covered with shiny slime. It just oozed along the grass when I tried to pick it up. After spreading it around, I gave up, threw the brown-and-yellow-coated bag of nasty in a sidewalk trashcan and walked to the deli to pick up my sandwich. Needless to say, it ruined my lunch.
-Holy fucking hell, Ollie.
There were puddles of what appeared to be liquidly brown mud on my kitchen floor. Three big ones infront of the the kitchen sink, and five or six little ones splatter around the stove and my cooking rack. There were dried brown dog foot prints between the puddles. You could almost see the stink rising off each mess; similar to the way a highway wavers on a hot day as you look down a long stretch of road, but green and pungent and eye watering and fully saturating the air. I had closed my windows so that the AC that I usually keep off during the day, would keep Ollie cool. The stink had nowhere to go. It could only seep into the cracks on the floor, into the sheets of my bed in the next room, into the cushions of my sofa and the clothes in my open closet. That smell could get everywhere I lived and fester and stink. I was pissed at first, but then I started to realize what had actually happened. Ollie had dropped a wet one somewhere in my apartment in the last 4 hours since my lunch break walk. He couldn’t help it, the dog was sick from something, probably the peanut butter I gave him so that the fist sized glucosamine horse pill he needs because of his bum hips would be something he would actually want to take. Boy oh boy, did that dietary detour bite me in the ass. But upon further examination during the gag inducing cleaning of these shit puddles on my floor, during which I had a washcloth I had rubbed bar soap on as to not have to smell the stink, this mess I was looking at didn’t look like it had been pooped out. He must have known that dropping a deuce in the kitchen of the dog-sitters apartment was the wrong thing to do to me, and he must have tried to destroy the evidence. By eating it. A quick glance at his mouth proved I was right.
-Oh shit, Ollie.
He had eaten his own soft dog diarrhea as penance for crapping on my floor. That is the only way he knew how to clean up. What a good boy!
-Oh fuck, Ollie. Are you alright, boy?
The smell was overwhelming. Even with the soap-saturated towel over my mouth, I was gagging. He had puked up his own fecal matter all over the kitchen. What was once a semi coagulated pile of soft dog crap, was now an immense splattering of half digested shit and stomach bile. And it stank. I opened the windows, cranked every fan I owned, and bleached the floor, thrice. Ollie started whimpering. He had to go again. Since then, he has been “spurting” on all the neighborhood lawns every half hour or so. The walks are just long enough for me to return to my apartment and get a fresh whiff of dogshitpuke. Even straight bleach can’t completely destroy it. I’ve given Ollie a shower. I’ve washed shit off my hands more times today than at any time in my life before. My folks always said, “make every day count for something.” Today counts for the most nauseating, sickening, vial and oppressive feces I have ever had to deal with.
-Ollie. Did you get this idea from 2 Girls 1 Cup?
So, now I sit in the remaining stink, mostly bleached out at this point, typing this undeniably gross retelling of my adventures with a friend’s dog’s shit and vomit. I feel like this is an exercise in descriptive storytelling. Maybe I just want someone to suffer along with me. Thanks for reading. And thanks, Ollie, for making today, an otherwise normal and unremarkable day, noteworthy to say the least.