"I don't bloody well believe it!"
I looked at the steaming pile of mustard-coloured runny dog poo on the carpet. The second Louie had done this morning, and he'd had a walk in between where he relieved himself of a similar squittery load. That made three. Three!
Louie isn't ours. He belongs to my friend V and we're minding him while V and her husband and extended family take themselves off on a cruise for nearly two weeks. I say 'we' but it's mainly me this week as G is away.
"He's a good dog," V said, "He won't poo in the house, he'll go to the door and tell you he wants to go out. Or he'll jump on the bed at night and lick you and ask you to take him out." (I winced at that last bit of news; Ellie has learned to sleep through the night and yawns and stretches herself awake at whatever time we do.)
Yeah, right. Our house, with its new carpet, is starting to resemble a dog toilet. Thank God the carpet is pet proof and stains etc come out with cold water.
Louie is a worry. He's been with us a week and didn't crap at all for the first two days, earning the nickname of No Shit Sherlock. Nerves, we thought. Now we can't bloody stop him, and I wouldn't mind if it were solid turds easily collected with toilet paper. Nope, it's runny. Nerves. Again. Even though he came to us with a bottle of Rescue Remedy to pop on his food to keep him calm.
He did the first of the runny jobs yesterday, in the living room. I found it at breakfast. It was small enough and in the same sort of place that our toy poodle Ellie sometimes poos if we're out and not home in time. So I didn't know who to blame. Ellie looked guilty (which means nothing, she knows if I see a turd on the carpet I shout a bit in general) but I said nothing to either dog and simply swore under my breath as I cleaned it. When I took both dogs for a stroll yesterday afternoon it was clear that Louie was the one with the squits. The mustard yellow, pungent squits. Great.
This morning's job was clearly Louie's. Our poodle girl couldn't have produced that massive mound and that mustard colour gave it away.
The second of today's indoor turds lay steaming on the floor of our rumpus room, greeting me after I went out this morning for a mere hour. By then Louie had had a walk and cleaned himself out so I thought he was 'safe' in the house. Silly me.
I had a big debate with myself - and the dogs - yesterday about what to do for the evening, aside from take Louie out last thing before bed.
Louie sleeps indoors, you see. He's about the size of a large cocker spaniel, and suffers with separation anxiety if he's locked outside. I tried shutting him in the kitchen during the day as a means of containing him on a floor that would be easy to clean but that lasted five minutes. Even with a doorstop behind the sliding door he'd opened it quick as a flash and joyfully came into my office with a happily waving tail and a look of accomplishment on his face.
I decided in the end I'd leave the door to the balcony open overnight. That way if he got caught short in the wee small hours he could wander out and lift a leg or squat. Every dog we've owned and every visiting dog has peed or worse out there and it's easy to hose off. The whole balcony probably smells beguilingly of eau du chien if you're a dog, so the temptation to add his own smell would encourage Louis to do it there.
With a slight worry about burglars - but thinking the sight of Louie and possibly Ellie out on the balcony barking would put them off - I went to bed and couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned until 1am, with three storms between 9.30 and then, and Louie getting upset at each of them and occasionally racing onto the balcony to bark then coming back inside with wet, dirty paws (sob!! First the shit, now the mud!!!).
So you can imagine my delight when I found the poo in the living room this morning, after leaving the door open for the bloody dog to use.
I hope his bowels settle by tomorrow as he was still doing mustard on his walk after dinner tonight. We have him for another week. All I can do is feed him plain food and keep taking him outside, but oh dear, the nights worry me. I don't want another seven nights of shite. When I stumble to the loo myself barefoot at 3am, eyes mainly closed, I don't want to tread in anything squishy and smelly and probably warm (would cold be better? Probably not.).
Louie now has a new nickname. Bluey. Not just because he's chestnut coloured and we Aussies call redheads Blue to be contrary, but because he has a new last name: Zarzoff.
