novahobbies
Well-Known Member
A week or so ago my Mom-in-Law went to visit some family in Ohio. She asked (very nicely) if we would watch her yorkie for a month while she was away. "Sure," we said. What could go wrong?
Now, I knew this dog wasn't really potty trained. When your owner is an older woman who.....let's face it.....is a little forgetful and not as active as she used to be, it's understandable that accidents might happen, and the dog just wasn't trained, nor does she know any better. I knew this coming into the situation, and we were prepared for it. Michelle and I are two Grown Adults* and we are Responsible.** We agreed on a schedule. I would take her out to potty in the morning, the dog would stay in the guest bathroom with a bed and a puppy pad during the day, and Michelle would take her out in the evening, whereupon we would let her have the run of the house for the rest of the night. It was a simple plan, really. Straightforward.
The first mistake we made was obvious. Nobody asked the dog what we thought of this plan. The first day dawned bright and sunny, and I - as is my nature - was running late getting to work. Almost out the door, a small alarm bell jingled in the back of my head. I paused, unused to this feeling, and looked back up the stairs towards the gated-off guest bathroom. One small eye (more on that later) looked back at me with an unblinking, slightly worried expression. I glanced at my watch, sighed, and tromped back up the stairs to collect the little quivering mass of fur and pent-up piddle. I hooked her leash up, walked her outside, and proceeded to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
The dog smelled the bushes. She pranced over to the light pole. "Surely," I thought, "she'll want to mark her territory." Nope. She did, however, decide to wrap the leash around the light a few time like a modern-day maypole. She then examined a few trees, deemed them unacceptable, and continued a nose-down search for that elusive "perfect spot." 10 minutes passed during this, and my blood pressure was slowly rising. In the back of my head, an image was forming. "She's a small dog. What if I just....squeezed....a little..?" Of course, I was kidding. Sort of.
After a few more minutes, it was clear that (1) the dog was not going to pee, and (2) I was going to be unquestionably late to work. I gathered my calm, did a few deep yoga-breaths, and brought the dog back up the stairs to the bathroom. I plopped her down and went to get a puppy pad for the day. When I got back to the bathroom, there was the dog....and beside her, a quickly spreading puddle of warm, fresh pee.
A few more yoga breaths.
I upended the puppy pad over the new yellow lake (they ARE absorbent, isn't that the point?) blotted the mess, and left again to get a clean pad, some spray cleaner, and paper towels. When I got back to the scene of the crime, there was the dog.....and a new gift at the door. This one of a more solid nature, you might say.
The yoga breaths weren't working. They were starting to sound like hyperventilating. There was a red color developing around the periphery of my vision. I'd tell you the dog looked back at me with a "I don't give a sh**t" expression.....but clearly, she just did. I considered a beer, and told myself it was only 8:45 in the morning. I started humming Jimmy Buffett's "5 o'Clock Somewhere" song in my head and, with a resigned sigh, began cleaning up the new mess. A few minutes later, there was a fresh puppy pad down, a clean bowl of water and some dry kibble, and one small happy looking Yorkie on her bed of towels. I left for work, and thought of ways to explain my tardiness to my boss that didn't involve poop, pee, or small dogs.
Fast forward 8 or 9 hours. I returned home from a victorious day of dragon slaying*** to my humble castle. I opened the front door and was greeted by.....a smell. An odd smell that I couldn't quite put my finger on, but would rather have closed my nose to. Curious (with a healthy mix of dreadful certainty) I mounted the stairs to check on the dog. There she was, curled up on her towels. Her puppy pad, once laid out straight and even, was now balled up in a tight, pee-soaked mass in the corner of the bathroom floor. She had clearly used it....once....and then in a fit of ecstasy, somehow nosed and pawed it into the convoluted jumble now in front of me. Beside the pad, in regular little piles, were three.....count them, three....piles of unmentionable things that I'd prefer not to dwell on too much. In varying degrees of consistency and, somehow, different aromatic bouquets. Once again, the dog looked pleased with herself more than anything else. "Look," said she, in her silent glance, "look at what I have created! I gift it to you!" There was pride in that imagined voice, I tell you.
The process of cleaning began anew, and (after a long and thorough hand-washing) the beer that was considered mere hours ago was opened and drained. A second followed, and a third went down to make sure the second didn't get lost along the way.
Such was the end of "day one" of our adventure with Mom's small one-eyed yorkie. I'd like to say that the days following were better. I'd like to say that she's learning to use the pad less and the outdoors more. I don't think I'd be telling the truth very well, but I'd still like to say it. In fact, the past couple days have introduced a new trick to her potty repertoire....the Shredded Pad. Now, she does one piddle on the pad, proceeds to tear the pad into a thousand little bits of urine-flavored fluff, and then balls up the sad plastic remainder in the corner for my viewing pleasure. She has also decided that the bits of piddle-puff have some sort of deodorant qualities, as she has taken to rolling in the resultant shredded material to give her coat that unique "lived-in" scent that one usually finds only around hobo towns and bad retirement homes.
One week down. 15 more days to go. And counting......
"I just peed. I must shred....."
I used to think, "how can you stay mad at this face?" That was before she came to live with us.
* I am using this term loosely.
** This is an outright lie, but it's a myth that I like to perpetuate whenever possible. It might even happen one day.
*** For anyone wondering, my dragons involve emails, contracts, and the buying and selling of radio and television airtime. Not the most glamorous or elegant dragons in the world, but if you imagine the emails with green scaly hides and sharp claws it may help. A little.
Now, I knew this dog wasn't really potty trained. When your owner is an older woman who.....let's face it.....is a little forgetful and not as active as she used to be, it's understandable that accidents might happen, and the dog just wasn't trained, nor does she know any better. I knew this coming into the situation, and we were prepared for it. Michelle and I are two Grown Adults* and we are Responsible.** We agreed on a schedule. I would take her out to potty in the morning, the dog would stay in the guest bathroom with a bed and a puppy pad during the day, and Michelle would take her out in the evening, whereupon we would let her have the run of the house for the rest of the night. It was a simple plan, really. Straightforward.
The first mistake we made was obvious. Nobody asked the dog what we thought of this plan. The first day dawned bright and sunny, and I - as is my nature - was running late getting to work. Almost out the door, a small alarm bell jingled in the back of my head. I paused, unused to this feeling, and looked back up the stairs towards the gated-off guest bathroom. One small eye (more on that later) looked back at me with an unblinking, slightly worried expression. I glanced at my watch, sighed, and tromped back up the stairs to collect the little quivering mass of fur and pent-up piddle. I hooked her leash up, walked her outside, and proceeded to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
The dog smelled the bushes. She pranced over to the light pole. "Surely," I thought, "she'll want to mark her territory." Nope. She did, however, decide to wrap the leash around the light a few time like a modern-day maypole. She then examined a few trees, deemed them unacceptable, and continued a nose-down search for that elusive "perfect spot." 10 minutes passed during this, and my blood pressure was slowly rising. In the back of my head, an image was forming. "She's a small dog. What if I just....squeezed....a little..?" Of course, I was kidding. Sort of.
After a few more minutes, it was clear that (1) the dog was not going to pee, and (2) I was going to be unquestionably late to work. I gathered my calm, did a few deep yoga-breaths, and brought the dog back up the stairs to the bathroom. I plopped her down and went to get a puppy pad for the day. When I got back to the bathroom, there was the dog....and beside her, a quickly spreading puddle of warm, fresh pee.
A few more yoga breaths.
I upended the puppy pad over the new yellow lake (they ARE absorbent, isn't that the point?) blotted the mess, and left again to get a clean pad, some spray cleaner, and paper towels. When I got back to the scene of the crime, there was the dog.....and a new gift at the door. This one of a more solid nature, you might say.
The yoga breaths weren't working. They were starting to sound like hyperventilating. There was a red color developing around the periphery of my vision. I'd tell you the dog looked back at me with a "I don't give a sh**t" expression.....but clearly, she just did. I considered a beer, and told myself it was only 8:45 in the morning. I started humming Jimmy Buffett's "5 o'Clock Somewhere" song in my head and, with a resigned sigh, began cleaning up the new mess. A few minutes later, there was a fresh puppy pad down, a clean bowl of water and some dry kibble, and one small happy looking Yorkie on her bed of towels. I left for work, and thought of ways to explain my tardiness to my boss that didn't involve poop, pee, or small dogs.
Fast forward 8 or 9 hours. I returned home from a victorious day of dragon slaying*** to my humble castle. I opened the front door and was greeted by.....a smell. An odd smell that I couldn't quite put my finger on, but would rather have closed my nose to. Curious (with a healthy mix of dreadful certainty) I mounted the stairs to check on the dog. There she was, curled up on her towels. Her puppy pad, once laid out straight and even, was now balled up in a tight, pee-soaked mass in the corner of the bathroom floor. She had clearly used it....once....and then in a fit of ecstasy, somehow nosed and pawed it into the convoluted jumble now in front of me. Beside the pad, in regular little piles, were three.....count them, three....piles of unmentionable things that I'd prefer not to dwell on too much. In varying degrees of consistency and, somehow, different aromatic bouquets. Once again, the dog looked pleased with herself more than anything else. "Look," said she, in her silent glance, "look at what I have created! I gift it to you!" There was pride in that imagined voice, I tell you.
The process of cleaning began anew, and (after a long and thorough hand-washing) the beer that was considered mere hours ago was opened and drained. A second followed, and a third went down to make sure the second didn't get lost along the way.
Such was the end of "day one" of our adventure with Mom's small one-eyed yorkie. I'd like to say that the days following were better. I'd like to say that she's learning to use the pad less and the outdoors more. I don't think I'd be telling the truth very well, but I'd still like to say it. In fact, the past couple days have introduced a new trick to her potty repertoire....the Shredded Pad. Now, she does one piddle on the pad, proceeds to tear the pad into a thousand little bits of urine-flavored fluff, and then balls up the sad plastic remainder in the corner for my viewing pleasure. She has also decided that the bits of piddle-puff have some sort of deodorant qualities, as she has taken to rolling in the resultant shredded material to give her coat that unique "lived-in" scent that one usually finds only around hobo towns and bad retirement homes.
One week down. 15 more days to go. And counting......
"I just peed. I must shred....."
I used to think, "how can you stay mad at this face?" That was before she came to live with us.
* I am using this term loosely.
** This is an outright lie, but it's a myth that I like to perpetuate whenever possible. It might even happen one day.
*** For anyone wondering, my dragons involve emails, contracts, and the buying and selling of radio and television airtime. Not the most glamorous or elegant dragons in the world, but if you imagine the emails with green scaly hides and sharp claws it may help. A little.
