Poop!

Soon I’ll update you on the (non)success of Brian’s Neti pot. I actually meant to do that today, but I just got back in the house from my afternoon walk with Bo and I wanted to talk about that. Seems like I write so rarely about Bo, and it’s because I just don’t ever think I can find words to describe what Brian and I find so cute and funny about him. I’m sure part of it is the typical owner-exclusive love one has for their pet, and of course the other part is just that Bo is the best dog on the planet.

Anyway, Bo and I were greeted by an unusual sight today as we made our mid-day trip to the lake. Twenty geese or so, who usually taunt Bo as they swim near the shore, stood on the edge of completely frozen water, looking unsure of themselves. The lake hasn’t frozen over in the years that we’ve lived here, and sure enough, Bo instantly recognized that it was now possible for him to chase those geese as far as he wanted.

He raced toward the edge of the ice and the geese, very much alarmed, took flight and landed with several clacks in the middle of the frozen lake. I could imagine Bo crashing through the ice and so I demanded he stop. He screeched to a halt and looked longingly at the group of birds just walking around out there. Dismayed, he gave me an angry pout and turned away. He bent his nose to the ground and examined a pile of fresh goose poop. He took a long, fervent sniff and then, like a woman pressing a love letter to her heart, passionately lowered his upper body and gave a great roll.

“Bo!” I cried. He looked up quickly and stopped, but across his face was an enormous smile. Across his neck was a large green smear.

This was the second time in two days that he had done this. I suppose he must realize that it’s the coldest winter in Raleigh since, oh, 1843, and that I just adore getting soaked with the hose when I have to wash him off. And as much as he despises bath time, he hasn’t yet made the connection between rolling in poop and getting sprayed off with 33 degree water.

I told him to leave it and he did, but the deed had been done and his fate had been sealed. I returned to the house grimly, and Bo trotted ahead like a boy who’d just applied some sweet camouflage face paint and was off to play soldiers in the woods.

Once home, I collected the shampoo, leash, and towel while he continued to frolic. It was then, when he heard the hose turn on, that his energy was instantly drained. He fell to the ground and rolled onto his back, ears back, praying desperately. His tongue nervously licked his nose. I couldn’t help laughing, and I crouched down to rub his belly. “I’m not mad at you, Bo,” I said gently. “I just can’t leave that poop on your face.”

Oh, but he was a dying soldier, a fearful martyr, an abused child at the hands of the Devil himself! He blinked his eyes very slowly before closing them completely. He was very still.

He was perfectly pathetic.

I slipped the leash around his neck. “Come on, Bo,” I said. He picked himself up and slunk over to meet me. In less than a minute, I was finished and he bounded up to the deck, once again the ball of energy I’m used to. I heard him scamper above me while I rinsed off my hands and turned off the hose. I walked up the stairs, grinning, while he waited happily for me to towel him off in the sunlight.

As I rubbed him down, he pressed his head into my stomach and gave me a look of great adoration – almost as lovingly as he’d looked at those geese from the shore. I smiled back at this crazy mass of dog, this baby I’ve got.

And it was just another adventure of Maegan and the Bo-Dog.

Because of Dwight Shrute, I thought these things were a JOKE.

I can understand now why Brian is such a bear when I spend the night tossing and turning. While it usually wouldn't be a problem for me to share a bed with, say, an operating printing press, last night was WAY BAD. I now know how he feels.

(One night, Brian dreamed he was kicking a barnyard pig back into its pen. He woke up and realized he was kicking me... as hard as he could. But I digress.)

Brian and I have come down with colds. His, I believe, is much worse than mine. And last night he was up every twenty minutes - I'm not kidding - clearing his throat, raucously expelling mucus, blowing his nose, sucking up nasal spray, and doing all kinds of walking around. I couldn't stay asleep at all. Can you believe it? The nerve. You bet I was annoyed. In my own NyQuil-induced drowsiness, I nearly cried, "Would you please start breathing through your NOSE and NOT WAKING UP ANYMORE?!"

As though he hadn't thought of doing that. What do I know? Maybe he'd even tried that.

Now I'm feeling sorry for my inward cruelty.

Anyway, Brian called me this morning and told me that a coworker had shared a magical remedy: the Neti pot. I'm off to buy one for my breathing- and sleep-challenged husband. I'll let you know how it works. And maybe - just maybe, if God doesn't judge me for last night's attitude - the Neti pot will be the remedy for MY sleep problem, too.