Gag me with a spoon

Let me apologize for the horrible nature of this rant. Obviously, there will be NO photo to go along with this disgusting, offensive missive.

Last night, in the depths of my sleep, I heard the sound that strikes fear into my heart.  Worse than an intruder, worse than a tree on the house, violating my dreams came the sound of something throwing up on the carpet.

Working with animals, I can handle a lot more than other acrylic tipped, frosty lip glossed women.  I can stitch something up, pull out maggots (I hesitate to say that I almost enjoy this?), and can even euthanize something and only cry a little.  Blood, I can deal with, even poo and pee.  But hurl, I can’t do.

Carpet is disgusting in general.  I have a heavy duty carpet cleaner that I whip out at least once a month and clean all carpets with bleach solution.  (Again, no environmentalist need complain.  I can match you tree hugging for tree hugging.) Why is it, though, with all this hardwood flooring and five fenced acres of any terrain that tickles their fancy, that an animal will seek out my white bedroom carpet to throw up?  Matilda actually came IN from outside to do this last night.  Apparently, whatever she ate was of such a nuclear red that it can be seen from space, glowing in the dark.

Remember the dog, Orlando, who ate “the object that shall not be named” from the Goose’s office?  He was not an indoor dog but once bolted past me at light speed, through the door, across the clean floors and up onto my bed to upchuck a surprising amount of ick onto my custom bedspread.  Custom, as in fancy schmancy fabric that was bought with .com boom money and hand stitched by a sweet faced Asian woman at the drapery workroom.

What’s worse than getting up at night and stepping on a hair ball with a bare foot? I think that if the government used this torture on prisoners of war, things would move along much more quickly. Just thinking about it made me tuck my leg up under me. My kids once knew a disgusting turd of a boy, who threw all the time. Not content to spoil my new sofa in the basement, he got my powder room floor and wallpaper and my son’s bedroom floor. Cricket once saw him barf behind a video game in a restaurant and move on as if nothing happened.  I can’t conceive of it.

Thankfully, my kids were tough and I didn’t deal with this often.  In my loving motherness, (Why is this not an acceptable word? I think it fits many situations.) I would just pop them into the bathroom and tell them to call me when they were done.  I am so grossed out by this that I can’t believe I’m even writing about it.

Bulimia will never be a threat to me, that’s for sure!

There is no way to wrap up this horrible blog. I don’t even know what to call it.  It’s disgusting.  I just want everyone out there to be living this terrible event along with me.  I want everyone to recall their throw up tragedies and send their commiserations and loving thought through the cosmos to me.  As much as I enjoy stain removal, THIS is not the way to start a morning.

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