Puppy shit

We have a puppy. Her name is Peggy.She is about 14 weeks old.

She shits on the floor.

Here is a picture of her on Wentes Meadow, Presteigne, where dogs are free to shit, a liberty which she all too infrequently takes advantage of.

My name is Ian. I am 55. I am a human, and potty trained since 1960, mostly. I do not shit on the floor, or at least, I didn’t think I did.

Yesterday, three-quarters of the way through Peggy’s afternoon walk, I  realised that I was on the verge of a humiliating attack of sudden onset diarrhoea. I picked up the pace, and trotted home as fast as I could manage. Peggy trotted alongside me. As I reached our front door, it became obvious that the crisis point had come. No one else was home. There was no time to deal with Peggy. I ran, I really did, up the stairs, with Peggy following. By the time I reached the bathroom, the thing had started. I desperately pulled down my trousers as the explosion took full bloom.

Peggy, a helpful little dog, started to eat the liquid shit which was already in my shreddies. I lurched forward to try to stop her, an action which, to my considerable distress, caused the lid of the lavatory to fall shut. The unstoppable cascade of liquid shit hit the lid with some force, and sprayed all over the loo, the cistern, the floor, the walls, me, Peggy’s face, and, ironically, all the bathroom cleaning materials. Peggy, meanwhile, was still ecstatically cleaning the shit from my underpants, pausing only to lick her cute little face.

I will draw a veil over the cleaning up process, which was long and unpleasant. But first Peggy had to be dealt with, to stop her chowing down on the unwelcome film of shit in which our bathroom was now covered. And this is where I had my first lucky break; she had cleaned my underpants sufficiently so that I could pull them up, step  out of my kecks, and shut Peggy in my office, and get on with the lengthy clean-up process.

An hour later, considerably shaken but recovered and cleaned up enough to go downstairs to make myself a cup of tea, my 10-year-old step-daughter came home from school. Peggy ran to greet her.

‘Hello Peggy!’ she said. ‘Kissy-kiss!’ And she bent down to let the pup lick her face. I thought it best, under the circumstances, to say nothing.