Houston, We Have A Problem

I am still trying to wrap my mind around the events of this morning.  My husband was headed downstairs when he called up to me rather frantically, “We have a real big problem down here!  I need your help!”  Trying to guess what the current crisis might be, I headed downstairs.  Nothing could have prepared me for the shock that awaited me.

My husband was standing in the kitchen with a poop-filled robot vacuum cleaner.  I had no words.  All I could do was open and close my mouth like some large fish that had just been hoisted out the water, trying to suck in air and expel words that just would not come.

Recently we purchased an automatic robot vacuum to help pick up the dog fur.  Apparently, one of our dogs had an accident last night and our robot vacuum tried to “clean it up”.  By that I mean that it systematically smeared poop across my living room floor in every conceivable direction.

If you have one of these vacuums, you know that they work in a random pattern, zigging and zagging, this way and that. Bouncing off walls and furniture, pivoting to and fro.  You can just imagine the mess that ensued.  Standing back and looking across the hardwood floor of my living room, it appeared as if some alien being from another planet was trying to communicate an indescribable message to us, in poop. 

Were it a festival, we could have called it:  Poop–mania, Poopnik, Poop-stock or, maybe, Poop-a-polooza! But believe me, this was no festival that you would ever want to attend. 

I grabbed a roll of paper towels and realized the futility of it before I could even make it back into the room.  There. Was. No. Way. One. Roll. Would. Suffice!  I suppose I was in denial at this point, however, I pressed onward.

Meanwhile, my husband was trying to clean the poop-filled vacuum.  Rollers full of poop.  Wheels full of poop.  This was a full-on, all-hands-on-deck, bar-the-doors, poop-disaster!  You know how they have a siren when there’s a tornado?  Well, I think they need a siren for this kind of catastrophe.  I pondered if there might be some kind of government assistance for this kind of clean up.  A feces-special-forces unit of sorts that might show up in Hazmat suits.

I realized quickly that no additional help would be coming.  Slowly, deliberately we worked our way through the mess.  We found ourselves saying odd things to each other, like, “Did you get all the poop out of the registers?”  Gosh, I hope so.  I can only imagine the air blasting through the vents, producing a scent that one does not find at Bath & Body Works.

After what seemed like an eternity, we managed to stumble, bleary-eyed, out of our house this morning.  Feeling like battle worn soldiers, I wondered if there might be some kind of medal for heroism or at least going above and beyond the call of “doodie”.  (Sorry, I couldn’t resist that one.)

So, friends, I implore you to heed this cautionary tale.  If you have pets, I cannot stress enough the importance of monitoring one of these vacuums.

I am going to lie down now.    

I am literally pooped out.