Every Christmas adds a story to the family lore.
Future retellings always begin with, “remember that year when…?” It is part of
the charm of the season. Well, this year was no exception at the Dunnevant
house. This new story begins at around midnight on Christmas Eve.
We have discovered that Lucy hates Christmas. Just about
the time that her skittishness and general anxiety had been largely overcome by
a settled routine, Christmas arrives with its light-strewn trees and packages
being delivered by strange men at all hours on the front steps. Christmas…with
its large shopping bags being lugged in from the garage, with its incessant wrapping
of boxes, and large terrifying socks hanging from the mantle. Let’s just say
that Lucy has been on edge of late.
Veterinarians tell us that there is an actual medical
term for what happened to poor Lucy at midnight on Christmas Eve…post-traumatic
intestinal dysfunction, or put another way, she literally had the s**t scared
out of her.
My wife, bless her heart, hasn’t had as much
experience taking Lucy out for her morning and evening constitutionals as I
have. It isn’t as easy as I make it look. On the night in question, matters
were made worse by Lucy’s excessive jumpiness and the presence of scary boxes
in the garage and Pam’s terrifying
black raincoat (don’t ask!). Even though she really, really had to go, she had
to literally be dragged through the garage first. Then, after she relieved herself,
she was equally hesitant to reenter the house via the dreaded garage. By this
time Pam is getting a bit annoyed by our adorable yet neurotic puppy. After
dragging her inside the garage, Pam had to slam the garage door shut behind her.
The loud noise this slamming made set off a series of unfortunate events which I
will attempt to describe in as elegant a manner as is possible.
After two weeks of Christmas noises, apparently the
slamming of the garage door was the noise that broke the camel’s back. Lucy
bolts frantically for the house ripping the leash out of Pam’s hand taking two
freshly manicured nails with it. Now, the race is on, Lucy dashing wildly in
hysterical circles around the house, the leash handle crashing into everything behind
her. With each loud noise of the leash handle Lucy runs faster. Patrick, who
was busy wrapping presents begins laughing uncontrollably at the sight only to
hear his mother screaming, “This is NOT
funny!!!” Patrick finally gets his wits about him long enough to corral
Lucy and begin the calming down process when they both notice…the smell.
Ok, we consider ourselves rather fortunate that Lucy
is er, uh, how shall I say this…regular. Not only regular, but very, uh, er, consistent, if you will. Put another
way, when Lucy has to go, it is extraordinarily easy to pick up. A very good
thing since in every room of the downstairs there are little, smelly, brown…deposits.
Here’s one by the front door. Here’s another by the refrigerator, oh, and one
more in the hall! A classic case of post traumatic intestinal dysfunction. As
our crazed puppy was frantically trying to escape from the clanging leash
handle, she was projectile pooping everywhere!! So, at midnight on Christmas Eve,
Pam and Patrick were engaged in a poop recovery mission, Patrick following his
nose and Pam coming along behind him with paper towels and Windex. By 12:30 it
was all over and Pam came upstairs to bed while Patrick finished his present
wrapping. At 1 o’clock Patrick sends his mother a text:
“Ok, so I found one last poop ball on the rug by the tree. I
almost stepped on it!! How do I clean poop out of a rug? Help!!”
Alert readers might well ask where I was while all of
this was taking place. It’s a fair question. That’s easy…I had just settled my
brain for a long winter’s nap, but unlike that sap in the poem, I did not spring from the bed to see what
was the matter thanks to my CPAP machine which had blocked out the entire
ordeal.
Lucy is in recovery.
I have scheduled dog-therapy for next week.
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