My Shitty

Because both my parents worked from nine to five during the summer when I was eight years old, I spent the days at the house of a neighbor who babysat me. She had two teenage daughters and two toddler sons of her own. Her two year old, Kevin, was in the process of toilet training; he was often put into big boy pants but had frequent accidents, and so was usually kept in diapers.

One afternoon I was watching television in the living room with Kevin beside me on the couch. His mother had put a pair of big boy pants (tightie-whities) on him, and— because the day was so hot – nothing else. She asked him several times if he was sure he would remember to tell her if he had to go to the bathroom, and reminded him repeatedly to do so. Kevin assured her that he would; the assurance of a two year old, however, is not something that one can always consider truly reliable.

Kevin and I were watching The Love Boat while his mother was in the kitchen feeding Kevin’s younger brother, Eric, and I was lost in episode. Kevin sat next to me quietly, sucking his thumb. When I happened to look over at him I saw a stream of pee running down the front of his tightie-whities and onto the couch.

Kevin took his thumb out of his mouth and called, “Peein’, Mom! Peein’! Peein’ now!”

Of course, his mother was none too happy. Exasperated, she snatched him up and hauled him upstairs to clean up. She shouted angrily, “You said you would tell me when you had to go! Why didn’t you tell me you had to go, Kevin?”

Bewildered, Kevin insisted that he had told her.

A few weeks later, Kevin, had been relegated once more to wearing diapers around the clock. He had dropped a really nasty load into his diaper and was taken upstairs to be changed by his sister, Teresa. I could hear her. She exclaimed in disgust the entire time. I don’t know what the kid had eaten for breakfast that day, or for supper the night before, but Kevin had truly dropped a bomb.

From the living room couch, I could see Teresa and Kevin, who were at the top of the stairs. She had put a fresh diaper on him and was carrying him down the stairs, swinging him gently by his arms as they went. When they arrived downstairs, Teresa sat down on the couch next to me with Kevin on her lap. Kevin sucked his thumb while the three of us watched whichever cheesy eighties Aaron Spelling show happened to be on that afternoon. A few minutes went by and then Kevin let out a grunt, followed by a wet-sounding fart. Teresa looked down at her lap and gasped, and she then lifted Kevin and stood up abruptly. There was poo oozing from Kevin’s diaper, and there was a fair amount of it on her jeans.

Poo continued to drip out of Kevin’s diaper and onto the carpet in lumps as Teresa rushed him toward the staircase, all the while yelling, “Oh no!” and, “Kevin!” over and over. By this time Kevin’s legs were really muddy and covered with brown streaks. Chunks of that brown continued to break loose and land on the floor.

Teresa rushed him up the stairs, and from the way it sounded put Kevin into the bathtub, and then she turned on the water. And as is my habit, I howled with laughter. I could hear Teresa freaking out from upstairs, heatedly, and apparently Kevin could hear me as well, because he laughed when he heard my laughter – the way little kids will sometimes do. His laughing made me laugh all the harder and the two of us carried on, howling, hooting, and giggling, for several minutes. Teresa was none too pleased with Kevin, nor with me.

I can’t say that I blame her. It sucks to get pooped on, and then to have to clean up doody from the floor (the poop trail ran through the living room, all the way up the stairs, and into the bathroom), one’s jeans, and one’s small brother. It probably sucks more still when people are laughing about it, especially when one of them is the perpetrator of the mess, and the other is a kid who has absolutely no intention of helping clean it up. I don’t know when Kevin ever learned to control his bodily functions, because the summer ended before he was given another chance to wear big boy pants.

Poop Report

Quite possibly the weirdest occurrence that we’ve had yet involving our Boston Terrier happened last night. I was sitting on the couch with my accounting book in my lap, reading the last chapter that I will ever read in this book. It’s a big book – over 1,000 pages and hard-bound. I think my dogs hate that book because it’s being open signifies that I will not be paying any attention to them.

Carlton is normally a wired little dog. He has put an actual dent into the wall by our kitchen because he uses the wall as a stopping barrier when he’s running circles in the house. I will be watching television with the family, and after he runs by in one of his laps, he’ll disappear from sight. It will be that that we will all hear a house-shuddering thud. This will be followed by more growling, more laps, and finally Carlton sitting at the door waiting to go out, looking in two directions at once because he’s slightly walleyed. We have bought a plaster repair kit but keep asking ourselves what the point is.

Last night, as I was reading that huge accounting book, Carlton jumps onto my lap and sat in the middle of the book. He grunted at me, and after I pushed him off, got up behind my head on the back of the couch and landed on the book again. “What?” I asked him. I moved him, and he did it again. Finally, he settled to sit on the arm of the chair next to me, but continued to try to get my attention.

After a minute or so I began to smell something. It smelled bad, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was; I was too engrossed in the horror that is the cash flow statement. I looked at Carlton. I smelled his fur. I smelled my hands. Then, I looked down to start reading again and I found the source of the smell; there was a small turd on the right-hand page.

”Oh, what the fuck?!” I yelled. Carlton looked absolutely miserable. “Why?” I asked him. He jumped down and ran for the door again, and I saw that there was something hanging off his butt. When I went into the kitchen to clean off my book (a book I’ll never look at the same again), I called him over and took a paper towel to his bum, and then I realized what the problem was. Poor Carlton had managed to eat some hair or something, and he had poop on a rope. It wasn’t a particularly bad case – I only had to gently pull with the paper towel and a few hairs came out – but the relief he showed when I did so was quite obvious. He had been trying to get my attention because he wanted my help.

He lay on the floor with his head down for a few minutes afterward, looking up at me every couple of seconds, and it occurred to me that he felt guilty. I did understand, because he never, never poops or pees in the house. So, I picked him up and read awhile with him in my lap.

So, this bizarre event got me thinking: What’s the weirdest place your dog has ever pooped? Where’s the oddest place that you’ve found pet crap in your house, period?

“I never did like that book anyway,” Carlton admits.

Poop Report

My three year-old has had bowel movement problems ever since he started to eat solids. We have tried just about everything to help him, short of taking him to a specialist (and freaking him out). So, he gets very constipated, and out of fear, he refuses to poop.

I have to give him laxatives to help him poop; however, not too long ago the laxatives were not producing results. His stomach was distended and I knew he really had to go. This being the case, I went to the store and bought an enema. Not a fun process to pull off.

Poor little guy.

I hated to give it to him, but he had to get rid of some of that poop. A few minutes after administering the enema, I knew by the noises he was making that there were going to be some results. I grabbed an old towel in case of an extra big mess was on its way. Then, I laid him on the couch to clean him up and get a new diaper.

It smelled horrible. Worse than normal.

I lifted his legs to wipe his bottom and to my extreme surprise a huge, twelve-inch poop torpedo shot out directly into my lap. My clothes were covered with poop, as well as the towel. The poop even got between the cushions of the couch. After the shock of the experience was over I laughed my ass off and told him he just did an awesome big poop. He was very proud of himself! Having been in the living room, my other two children were also laughing hysterically. Talk about one hot mess!

Poop Report

I had split up with my girlfriend a couple of weeks ago, and I was feeling down when a good friend called and invited me out to the local pub. “Great!” I thought, “I could use some relief and friendship.” It was not long before we chatted up two alluring young women at the bar. One thing the led to another, and before long we were dancing and drinking way too much.

It didn’t take much persuasion for “Sarah” to invite me to her apartment. When we got there, we flopped on the couch and exchanged niceties until she leaned over and whispered a proposition in my ear.

“Yes!” I cried. I stood up and she divested me of my pants and underwear and began to give me, um, er, oral ministrations. My legs were shaking so much that I had to sit on the couch. Her expertise had me on the edge for a long time. Finally, the ministrations reached a crescendo, and we disengaged.

After a while, I dressed. It was then, with rising horror, that I saw a shit stain on “Sarah’s” beige couch, exactly where I had been squirming a few minutes before. The stain was about half an inch wide and maybe four inches long. I immediately grabbed a pillow and positioned it over the stain, hoping this would give me time to think what to do. Should I tell her, or try to escape unnoticed? Should I beg for forgiveness and clean it up?

She came back into the living room and remarked, “That pillow doesn’t go there.” I recognized in her a neat and clean freak, and felt a rising wave of nausea as she grabbed the pillow.

She shrieked and the pillow fell from her hands. “Was it you who made this stain?” she implored. I knew right then I had to confess.

“No, it was your dog that did it.”

“I don’t even have a fucking dog!”

“Yes, it is mine,” I allowed.

“Well, then clean it up, for fuck’s sake!” she shouted.

“Alright,” I croaked, “Give me a toothbrush and some Lysol.”

Well, I scrubbed the stain and some of it was coming off; but shit on beige? Good luck. “This is the best I can do,” I moaned. Soon, I was banished from the apartment and onto the street.

Several weeks later, I saw her dancing and drinking with a new guy. “Heh,” I thought, “he`ll probably soil the other side of the couch. Great revenge!”

Poop Report