Skrip - tyur' - i - ent: adj. Possessing the violent desire to write.


#070 In which our hero contemplates the end of days.

Bad times are coming. I can see them on the horizon, like gathering storm clouds.

There are several things in my life right now that hold the potential for disaster. And, I'm sure, the cosmic entities that control my life have also noticed this, and made their dastardly plans.

The events:
  • My wife is pregnant with child #2
  • The dog's bowel issues seem to be escalating
  • We have been, up to this point, unable to corral the dog into a non-carpeted area*
  • The in-laws are coming for an extended stay after the baby is born
  • Child #1 has become increasingly possessive of her toys (and when I say "her toys," I mean anything that happens to be in her grasp and/or line of sight. This includes, but is not limited to, anything from the kindling pile, Kleenex, and cell phones)
I don't have to paint you a picture, do I?

I know, know, in my bones that all of the events above are going to collide into one giant dog-shit-cramped-quarters-screaming-baby black hole.

And I will be unable to escape.

The sound.

The smell.

The horror!

* Don't think we haven't tried. A quick review of the archive will reveal several dog plans, each failing in turn. The Scientist and I have more or less thrown in the towel, as far as curing this dog. We've gone straight to disaster planning; when, not if. You'd be surprised, and more than a little repulsed, I'm sure, to learn how much of our daily conversation revolved around our dog's bowels.
THE SCIENTIST: Did he poop on the walk?
ME: Yeah, a little bit. But I think there's more coming.
TS: What was it like? Was it firm?
ME: It was a little soft, but not alarmingly so. I'm not sure if it's from the chicken and rice diet, or if something's coming.
TS: Did you give me those antacids before you fed him?
ME: Yeah, but only three. Is he still getting those steroids? That firmed up his poop.
TS: We cut him back to stop the peeing in the house.
ME: Oh yeah...
We watch him like hawks every time he's let out into the back yard to poop, jockeying for a better position if we don't have a good line of site to his ass. Then we examine what comes out, like judges evaluating Olympic figure skating.
ME: Hmm... firm start, nice break...
TS: But a little soft at the finish.
ME: Agreed. Not his best showing.


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