Good dog! Good boy! Come here daddy’s boy!

Saturday morning, a summer day.
My wife is out and I am at home with all three kids.
It is pleasant.
Quiet.
Too quiet.

Daddy! The future horse doctor screamed.
The future wildlife film maker is covered in poo!

Whatthehellcouldshemeanandwhatthehellisgoingon

I dash to the source of the scream.
And Shitsake, so he was.
Looking guilty, doe eyed, and covered in crap.
It was everywhere.
How can a three year old little guy have so much shit all over him? I mean, it was down his legs, on his feet.
He was naked except for a soiled T-shirt.
It was retching time.
I gagged a couple of dry bile burps.

Then I acted swiftly and decisively, and with the minimum of contact (by prodding and waving with my fingers) I managed to herd him into the bathroom without actually touching him, and I got a shower going and him in it.
There were some shitty footprints en route to deal with later, and there had been a bit of finger contact getting the T-shirt over his head (triple gag), but he was in a stream of warm water and had an older sister to watch him, problem one was solved.

Then my attention moved to where his deposit would be.
This was not going to be easy or pleasant.
I moved gingerly downstairs, tip-toeing from room to room as though expecting to confront a burglar.
My middle daughter shadowing me, a disgusted grimace on her face. Boys!
My eldest daughter had left her post at the shower and upsettingly looked rather gleeful.
I sensed that delicious feeling kids get when there is kak on the go, and they are in the clear. For a no-TV house, this was major entertainment.

We searched the house, we searched the garage, the searched the deck, the driveway.
Everywhere. Every room.
No poop. Anywhere.
But you could smell it badly. It was hiding somewhere for sure.
I was completely flummoxed.

I headed back to the shower where the fruit of my loins was luxuriating unperturbed in his steaming shower. He was having a ball.
I noticed that he had started drawing little soap motives on the glass of the shower door.
He didn’t seem to be experiencing a world of stress.

Listen little buddy, where did you poop little man.
I can’t find your poop anywhere.

Then he looked me square in the eye. Straight on.
No blinking or grimacing and he said what no loving father should ever hear.
Slowly, clearly and perfectly enunciated.

“I poo’d in your car daddy…”

I bolted down the stairs and towards the driveway.
The future vet had beaten me to the car though.
As I ran the final meters I saw her reach the car, look inside, and then turn around with her hand over her mouth doubling up.
Shitsake.

It was bad. It was terrible. It was confined to the driver’s seat.
My seat. The one I put my arse in each time I drive.
Godinheavenwhatwashethinking
That was a seriously satisfying bowl movement.
He must have lost a couple of kilograms right there and then had a little dance on it, painted a bit with it, and then finally squished it a bit more before wandering into the house.

My wife was completely unsympathetic on the phone.
I was on my own.

And then a gift from up above.
I glanced down at my ankles and who should be there but my old matey Sedgwick.
A reasonably disgusting Jack Russell with a penchant for poop.
I had endured his disgusting habits for the past ten years. He owed me.

And that my friends was that.

I popped him in, closed the door and headed upstairs to get the guilty party out of the shower.

Once he was done and dried and dressed I headed hopefully downstairs and out to the car.

A smiling, grinning, grunting little doggy face was at the window.

His entire body wagging with his tail in glee.

He had vacuumed up the entire load and then licked everything spotless.

Good dog! Good boy! Come here daddy’s boy! Good doggy! Brave Dog!