Happy Birthday
Feb. 1st, 2009 09:47 amto
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purplehez!
purplehez!Feb. 1st, 2009
Weimaraner: The Hound of Hell
Feb. 1st, 2009 07:24 pmI went into work today. I was to work with Elise, the groomer, who started out as a tech, but moved to grooming when Michelle left to be a mother. I'd never worked with Elise before, but I'd heard she was a dynamo on the weekends, being keen to get in and get out quickly, so I decided to get there early so I could get ahead and make an impression on her and show her that I wasn't a slacker. She was already there when I got there, and so were Dr. Patch and Sharon. As we all walked in, Elise said, "I've already done the runs."
"Okay, cool, I'll start on room one," I said, certain I'd get rooms one and two done and over with and could probably do the barn and spend some time with Levi. I was wrong. Oh so very wrong.
Room one only had two dogs in it: Toby, the rat dog and professional mess-maker, and Raleigh, the Weimaraner pup and future Dr. Evil. From around 8:30 this morning, when the morning crew probably left, until 4 this afternoon, Raleigh had single-pawedly transformed his cage from a nice large doggie abode covered with about a half a newspaper to a toxic waste dump. He had pulverized the newspaper, creating two piles of newsprint sludge with a mixture of piss and shit. He had also done the Beer Barrel Polka in place all over his cage, spreading the toxic mixture of piss and shit from pillar to post so it could dry into a nice hell-clay that covered the majority of his cage.
I took Raleigh out to pee and poop, which he did, much to my surprise, given the state of his cage, then brought him back to a fresh cage. I'd no sooner gotten him in and given him his meds when Doc opened the door to room one and exclaimed, "What the hell happened in here?" I pointed at Raleigh. Raleigh pointed at me (well, he would have if he could have). About that time, Sharon walked by with a freshly washed Charlie in her arms. "What on Earth is that?" She asked, disbelief in her voice. "Tracy, is that you??"
Thinking about all the flatulence-driven horror through which I've put Aunt Tudi over the years, I said, "Yes, Sharon. Yes, it's me." Dr. Patch scampered from the room and returned with a bottle of XO (an odour-eliminator), which he sprayed all over the cage. It worked only in liquifying the mess, which made it harder for me to clean up.
"You're gonna have to wash that dog's feet off so that shit doesn't dry on his pads," he said. "It'll be nearly impossible to get off by tomorrow morning."
It was already dry on his feet because the waste dump was already dry in his cage. And Doc was right, it was nearly impossible to get off. I spent a good thirty minutes in grooming washing this dog's feet, then drying them. Raleigh wasn't at all receptive to being wet, nor was he very happy about the hair dryer. Just saying I got my exercise like whoa just by washing this hell-puppy's feet. I got him back to room one and put him in the clean cage with some food and water, then set to scooping out the semi-solid bits inside the toxic waste dump. Thank the Mighties for latex gloves!
Once the semi-solids were gone, I took the towel Doc gave me to throw away after use and wiped up with worst of the liquid toxicity. I then sprayed the entire cage down with the cleanser we use to clean and sterilise dog-frequented areas. I sprayed and sprayed and sprayed and SPRAYED AND SPRAYED AND SPRAYED SOME MORE. Lawdy Jeebus, my spray finger is numb from pumping that freakin' spray bottle. And, if I'd known about all the paper towels I would have used in such a brief period of time, I would have bought stocks in them ages ago. I'm sure I used at least a roll and a half.
But, get this: by the time I was halfway finished with cleaning the cage from hell, Raleigh had eaten all his food, turned over his water bowl, and had set to pulverizing his newspaper. By the time I had completed cleaning the cage from hell, Raleigh had scooped all the newspaper to the corners of his cage and was proceeding to poop, after he'd already pooped outside just 45 minutes before. Fuck on a stick! Baby Jesus on rollerblades! This dog was obviously out to get me and whomever else was unfortunate enough to have to tend to him during his boarding time at the vet's office! I let him finish his business, then transferred his demonic arse from his newly-destroyed cage to his freshly sanitised cage. I then set to cleaning the new disaster, pulled out the rancid trash bag filled with Raleigh's 700 deadly sins, sprayed some Oust to kill whatever odours might still be lingering, and turned off the lights. "Good night, asshole! G'night Toby!"
By the time I'd finished what was probably one of the worst cleaning nightmares of my entire life, Elise had done everything else except the dishes, which I promptly set to doing. Once the dishes were done, I apologised to Elise, telling her that I usually am faster than this shining example of my work ethic. She told me not to worry about it, that Doc had told her about the horror movie in which I'd been deposited, and she could smell it too. What she didn't know was that I'd had to take this hell-puppy to grooming to wash his feet on top of everything else. She was appropriately horrified and scandalised, and she told me that she knew I usually did better than this, that she wasn't worried about it all. I then asked her if she could smell me, because all I could still smell was rancid shit, and I felt like it was all over me. She told me that she couldn't, but I can still smell it. Aunt Tudi said she couldn't smell me either. I think they're all lying just to save my already bruised feelings. Dr. Patch and Sharon would tell me the truth though. Hell, Sharon was already quick to place the blame on me from the get-go. I think Aunt Tudi has been telling her stories about me and my near-legendary flatulence.
I just pity whomever opens the door to room one tomorrow morning. It's going to be ugly. Beyond ugly. Maybe I should have made a sign or something and taped it to the door. Something like "Open with caution" or "Just go home now!" or "Kill yourself now and spare yourself the indignity of the hell-puppy." Something. Anything. Because they're going to find themselves starring at a toxic mess brought about by a dog who likes to Jitterbug in his own excrement, a canine who enjoys doing the Michigan Rag whilst pissing, shitting, and probably projectile vomiting all at once. This dog is the puppy from HELL and I hope he has gone home by the time I go into work tomorrow.
That dog is a fuckerer and I don't like him one damned bit. That is all.
"Okay, cool, I'll start on room one," I said, certain I'd get rooms one and two done and over with and could probably do the barn and spend some time with Levi. I was wrong. Oh so very wrong.
Room one only had two dogs in it: Toby, the rat dog and professional mess-maker, and Raleigh, the Weimaraner pup and future Dr. Evil. From around 8:30 this morning, when the morning crew probably left, until 4 this afternoon, Raleigh had single-pawedly transformed his cage from a nice large doggie abode covered with about a half a newspaper to a toxic waste dump. He had pulverized the newspaper, creating two piles of newsprint sludge with a mixture of piss and shit. He had also done the Beer Barrel Polka in place all over his cage, spreading the toxic mixture of piss and shit from pillar to post so it could dry into a nice hell-clay that covered the majority of his cage.
I took Raleigh out to pee and poop, which he did, much to my surprise, given the state of his cage, then brought him back to a fresh cage. I'd no sooner gotten him in and given him his meds when Doc opened the door to room one and exclaimed, "What the hell happened in here?" I pointed at Raleigh. Raleigh pointed at me (well, he would have if he could have). About that time, Sharon walked by with a freshly washed Charlie in her arms. "What on Earth is that?" She asked, disbelief in her voice. "Tracy, is that you??"
Thinking about all the flatulence-driven horror through which I've put Aunt Tudi over the years, I said, "Yes, Sharon. Yes, it's me." Dr. Patch scampered from the room and returned with a bottle of XO (an odour-eliminator), which he sprayed all over the cage. It worked only in liquifying the mess, which made it harder for me to clean up.
"You're gonna have to wash that dog's feet off so that shit doesn't dry on his pads," he said. "It'll be nearly impossible to get off by tomorrow morning."
It was already dry on his feet because the waste dump was already dry in his cage. And Doc was right, it was nearly impossible to get off. I spent a good thirty minutes in grooming washing this dog's feet, then drying them. Raleigh wasn't at all receptive to being wet, nor was he very happy about the hair dryer. Just saying I got my exercise like whoa just by washing this hell-puppy's feet. I got him back to room one and put him in the clean cage with some food and water, then set to scooping out the semi-solid bits inside the toxic waste dump. Thank the Mighties for latex gloves!
Once the semi-solids were gone, I took the towel Doc gave me to throw away after use and wiped up with worst of the liquid toxicity. I then sprayed the entire cage down with the cleanser we use to clean and sterilise dog-frequented areas. I sprayed and sprayed and sprayed and SPRAYED AND SPRAYED AND SPRAYED SOME MORE. Lawdy Jeebus, my spray finger is numb from pumping that freakin' spray bottle. And, if I'd known about all the paper towels I would have used in such a brief period of time, I would have bought stocks in them ages ago. I'm sure I used at least a roll and a half.
But, get this: by the time I was halfway finished with cleaning the cage from hell, Raleigh had eaten all his food, turned over his water bowl, and had set to pulverizing his newspaper. By the time I had completed cleaning the cage from hell, Raleigh had scooped all the newspaper to the corners of his cage and was proceeding to poop, after he'd already pooped outside just 45 minutes before. Fuck on a stick! Baby Jesus on rollerblades! This dog was obviously out to get me and whomever else was unfortunate enough to have to tend to him during his boarding time at the vet's office! I let him finish his business, then transferred his demonic arse from his newly-destroyed cage to his freshly sanitised cage. I then set to cleaning the new disaster, pulled out the rancid trash bag filled with Raleigh's 700 deadly sins, sprayed some Oust to kill whatever odours might still be lingering, and turned off the lights. "Good night, asshole! G'night Toby!"
By the time I'd finished what was probably one of the worst cleaning nightmares of my entire life, Elise had done everything else except the dishes, which I promptly set to doing. Once the dishes were done, I apologised to Elise, telling her that I usually am faster than this shining example of my work ethic. She told me not to worry about it, that Doc had told her about the horror movie in which I'd been deposited, and she could smell it too. What she didn't know was that I'd had to take this hell-puppy to grooming to wash his feet on top of everything else. She was appropriately horrified and scandalised, and she told me that she knew I usually did better than this, that she wasn't worried about it all. I then asked her if she could smell me, because all I could still smell was rancid shit, and I felt like it was all over me. She told me that she couldn't, but I can still smell it. Aunt Tudi said she couldn't smell me either. I think they're all lying just to save my already bruised feelings. Dr. Patch and Sharon would tell me the truth though. Hell, Sharon was already quick to place the blame on me from the get-go. I think Aunt Tudi has been telling her stories about me and my near-legendary flatulence.
I just pity whomever opens the door to room one tomorrow morning. It's going to be ugly. Beyond ugly. Maybe I should have made a sign or something and taped it to the door. Something like "Open with caution" or "Just go home now!" or "Kill yourself now and spare yourself the indignity of the hell-puppy." Something. Anything. Because they're going to find themselves starring at a toxic mess brought about by a dog who likes to Jitterbug in his own excrement, a canine who enjoys doing the Michigan Rag whilst pissing, shitting, and probably projectile vomiting all at once. This dog is the puppy from HELL and I hope he has gone home by the time I go into work tomorrow.
That dog is a fuckerer and I don't like him one damned bit. That is all.
