The Case of the Piles of Dog Vomit

So about two hours ago I'm all "it's time to blog!" and then Youngest Daughter said, "Hey, we didn't walk Shiloh (the GD Dog) and you said we would!" and so I took the GD Dog out for a walk with YD, and the GD Dog pulled me all over the neighborhood for about two blocks, and when I have to jog it makes my belly roll flop and it's super unattractive.  That makes me cranky.

Then we get home and The Son is still in the shower, but YD needs to take a bath, so I wander in the kitchen and see that my children haven't unloaded or loaded the dishwasher as per their rental agreement, Section 1 Page 2 Clause 6.  I yell a little bit and then think "Oh to hell with it" because The Son is in the shower and can't hear me and Oldest Daughter's eyes are glazed over and she is doing Algebra and it's already late so I just do it because I am getting my mother's martyr complex, which is apparently hereditary.  That makes me cranky.

Then I finally get YD in the bath and I let her take 40 small toys in there, and just as I am preparing to wash her hair, I hear Current Husband in the other room say, "You have GOT to be kidding me!" and not in a "I just heard the funniest joke!" kind of way.  I run into the living room and there are not one, but THREE fresh steaming piles of dog puke.  The GD Dog is sitting behind them, looking sheepish, and George the Superpet is around the corner saying, "I told you that GD Dog was going to be nothing but trouble."  Since it is my mother's dog, I felt compelled to clean it up.  CH felt compelled to head out the door to meet someone for a beer.  Everyone else felt compelled to go to bed.  This all reminded me of my favorite story.

"Not I," said the kid.

"Not I," said the husband.

"Not I," said the GD Dog.

"Then I will," said the Little Red Hen.

And then she ate a whole fucking cake and was bitter for the rest of the night.

The End.

Goodnight, Wifers!