Happy Birthday to me

Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to my 39 year old se-elf, Happy Birthday to me.

I didn’t really have any ideas or plans for my birthday. There were a few things however, I hadn’t planned on.

Twas the eve of my birthday. It was an average evening, nothing notable.

We head to bed about 10:30 and we take the dogs with us. This is a precautionary measure as our weekend guests brought a dog as well.

It’s 12:17am

I shoot upright in bed, confused.

What the what??

I see a dog’s butt, Peanut’s butt.

He’s backed his ass up and is having diarrhea on the bed…on the blankets…on my crotch…a top the blankets!

The stench is so foul waves of gags are hammering me.

I’m hitting my husband.

The dog’s shitting on me.

“Huh, ok. What do you want me to do?”

“I can’t move, wipe the shit up and let the dogs out.”

My husband comes back 3 times to wipe up diarrhea. I’m holding the duvet cover off the comforter hoping it doesn’t seep thru.

It’s stinks so bad. It’s like a skunk in a porta potty in the August heat.

My husband asks what they got into. Like I have some answers to offer.

We strip off the duvet.

Husband decides the dogs don’t need to go out because it’s all out. Fine.

We retreat to our room that reeks of sunk and open ass.

We’re so disappointed we have to sleep in this contamination zone with only our lungs to purify the air.

We fall asleep.

Huuk! Huuk! Blarg!

I wake again, it’s 1:30am.

The other dog is now retching next to me. Why me? Why don’t they do this on my husband’s side of the bed.

“N! Butter’s throwing up.”

“Are you kidding me.”

I start cleaning it up, and get back in bed.

We roll over again to go back to sleep, but the dogs are huddled together. It’s weird.

“Hey, what are you doing” I ask as I go investigate. “There’s more puke over here!”

I clean that up, toss it into the toilet and flush.

The toilet floods.

Nope, that’s a tomorrow problem. I close the lid and retreat to bed.

We roll over for some shut eye.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

“Oh my God!”

The oldest is screaming, she’s had a bad dream.

My husband rage throws off the blankets and exits the room stopping only to pick up his pants on the way.

He gets to sleep on the top twin bunk with the oldest leaving me with the beasts of burden.

Sleeping commences.

Bleh! Bleck!

I lunge out of bed and shuffle the dogs towards the bathroom.

Please puke on the tile!


We didn’t make it, Butter puked in the hall.

I let the dogs out and go back for more carpet cleaning.

I’m muttering profanity under my breath and thinking my husband getting sausaged onto the top bunk bed has the better deal.

The dogs are in. I return to my bed for my next nap.

I wake up, it’s 8:30 and I pop up to look for the dogs. They’re gone. The hubby must have taken them.

We get up and discuss getting pooped on while sleeping. Everyone laughs.

My husband then confesses that when he ran out of the room he grabbed my sweatshirt and not pants. He wasn’t pleased being caught with no pants.

My brother in law explained with bulging eyes how he found the flooded toilet. He complained that someone had blow it out and left it. Then lastly, the stench was horrific.

As we pack up to head home I find a puddingish pile of poop hidden behind a chair.

I call the husband in for backup. He’s complaining about the consistency. It’s hard AND soft. It’s stuck to the shag. He yells he may need scissors. It’s too much! We’re all laughing at the shit storm.

As I write this we are driving home. The car is full of rank dog farts. We’ve already stopped once to let the manic poopers out with no luck.

Call me skeptical but I’m thinking we’re not making it home without a poosplosion happening…

Update: Butter just puked in the back. Husband just asked if we need to power wash it out. Quarter car wash he adds, twice.

Happy Birthday to me??

Published by

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s