Shit Happens...Literally.

I love my pets. One might say that I'm actually mildly obsessed with them. I even had this lovely portrait of them commissioned for The Hubs this Christmas:

Yes, we are "those people."

I've become accustomed to the constant battle against the tracked-in mud, the tornado of fur, the kitty litter that always seems to get everywhere despite the special paw-wiping pad we bought, the toxic dog farts, the early weekend wake-up calls, the wallet-busting vet bills, and the need to trim dingleberries off doggie "private areas." The intense love that I have for our animals more than makes up for all of these annoyances.

But today, my friends...today I hit rock bottom. Please brace yourself for what is about to follow.

I just had a tug-of-war battle over a huge. frozen. turd. I don't know why dogs insist on eating poo, when I can assure you that ours are more than well fed. After this revolting activity, in which my grocery-bag-covered hand rescued only half of the turd in question (blecch), I sucked it up and set off to perform my least favorite pet-related chore: yard duty. (Or should that be "doody?") Still in my work clothes, heels sinking into the rain-soggy ground, I navigated our mine field and ended up with two full grocery bags of poo. And now it's time to clean out the litter box. I can't even imagine how much excrement our household will be producing once we have kids and there are diapers involved.

Crap.