…yesterday morning I got to deal with the dog as well. He went out as usual first thing, and apparently found something real nice to “waller” in. He went upstairs right after he came back in, and when he made it back down to the living room I noticed a very offensive odor. No, Elisabeth’s diaper was fine. Then I squinted at Elliot, thinking, “Has he always had that huge brown patch on his shoulder and side?” (The lights were still out so I couldn’t see him very well.) Upon shedding light on the situation and examining things closer, I realized that said brown patch was in fact the source of aforementioned offensive odor: a large feces stain. I don’t know what animal it came from, but apparently he had had great fun rolling in it outside. So for the first time in my life, I gave the dog a bath. I washed his collar. Then I thought, “He was upstairs.” Thoughts of dread and apprehension fill my head. I slowly and cautiously walk upstairs and into my bedroom, where my thoughts are validated. He had tried to clean himself off on my bed. Off comes the quilt. Off come the sheets. Off come the pillowcases. By the grace of God my stomach stayed where it belongs. On goes the washing machine. Downstairs goes Mommy to care for Elisabeth who has been relegated to her highchair this whole time and really wants her breakfast. So the dog got a bath and the bedding got washed, all before my other two woke up, and I didn’t even curse the whole time. You know, when you wipe as many bottoms as many times a day as I do, cleaning up after one more really doesn’t faze you all that much.