In Deep Doo-Doo

This is Hank, aka The Monkey. I call him Monkey because he loves bananas. Secretly, I also kind of thought it would be cool if he actually was a monkey. I would dress him up in a bow tie and tell people he was my monkey butler and everyone would laugh.

Sadly, today I got a taste of what it would actually be like to have a primate, minus the flinging part. Yes, Hank "The Monkey" Morton pooped in my house. Twice. While I was changing to take him on a walk so he could take care of said bodily function.

Ben got up really early this morning and took the dogs out around 5 a.m. At around 8 a.m., Hank was standing next to me letting out a quiet "woof!" to gently let me know that he needed something and would I please consider getting up? He's so sweet when he's trying to wake me. I love that about him. I got up, put on my shoes, and took the dogs down to the back yard, where to Hank's credit he started to go to the bathroom. He really tried, but as luck would have it, the next door neighbors started causing a ruckus and it scared the crap out of him (unfortunately, not in the literal sense) and he bolted for the door. I went back upstairs to put on acceptable clothes to walk him in, and that's when it happened. Oh. My. Hell. It was awful. I yelled and screamed and threw a huge fit. I finished, content in my rantings and ravings of a mad woman that I had scared him so badly he wouldn't even think of doing it again. Not 30 minutes later, I got out of the shower and guess what I found? MORE OF IT. MORE!!!

This time I grabbed him and rolled him on his back while I explained in no uncertain terms that he was a bad dog and this kind of thing will not be tolerated in my house. He's been pouting ever since.

Happy first day of nursing school to me. Isn't it a bit fitting that I would spend it cleaning up the bathroom emissions of the elderly?