Jackpot

I promise I'll never complain again. Ever. Not now that I know where it gets me.

You remember my last post, right? Well, guess what! I've got a story for ya!

Let me recount for you the last 15 minutes of my life:

I was lying in bed reading. The intention was to get to bed at a reasonable hour, preferably closer to 11 than to midnight. Jeff was downstairs reading the internet (he reads the entire thing everyday, you know) and Autumn was at his feet chewing a bone.

Suddenly I hear commotion! I hear Jeff say, "Oh, man, that's really gross. Ugh."

Autumn works up quite a saliva lather when she's chewing, and I assumed that Jeff had gotten slimed. But then he says it again, "Oh, man. That's disgusting. Ugh. Gross."

I hear Jeff come up the stairs. Then I hear a familiar sound - the sound of a dog puking. Splat.

"Meredith? Can you come help me?"

A little apprehensive by this point, I got up and went out into the hall and turned on the light. Massive pile of dog puke on the landing, right where Jeff would have stepped had he kept going in the dark.

He says, "There's a bigger pile downstairs. I'm about to throw up."

Here's the thing though. Dog puke is one thing. But did you forget? OUR DOG EATS POOP!

That's right, people. Our sweet little Autumn, the one that the vet said just today was JUST FINE, PERFECTLY HEALTHY, had just thrown up her own poop.

And then Jeff and I spent about 10 minutes (or more) trying to clean the whole mess up. It still smells like poop. We need some Febreeze off in here.

If you ever come into my house, I will NEVER TELL YOU WHERE IT HAPPENED. So don't ask.

Man, the mommy bloggers are on to something. This is way more fun that writing about how Jeff and I spent the evening watching Dancing With the Stars, and he put up with my own professional critique of the dancers...