So what does a good wife do for her husband's birthday? Well, I had big plans. Because Big Dog's school was closed, I decided to work from home. I'd planned on slipping out at lunch and picking up cake makin's and the necessary ingredients for a batch of orange ginger soy ribs. But that didn't happen. Instead, I was swamped. Yesterday evening I'd returned from a particularly hellish business trip and this morning, I made the spur of the moment decision to keep Little Dog home since Big Dog was already going to be home. And thus I cut my lunch time productivity by about 2/3. Probably more. I did manage to get the boys to a book store to buy Mr. Dog a "football book" as Big Dog requested, but that was about it. No food, thus no cake.
After my last meeting of the day I tried to mobilize to get something I could throw together for dinner, but the boys were lagging. I called Mr. Dog and he suggested we just order in. See, this is one of the many reasons why I love him. So I settled in and was finishing up the last of my work email. Something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye and I glanced up just in time to see Dashiell look surprised and a stream of diarrhea spew out of his butt.
I rushed him out of the house so he could finish his display someplace uncarpeted. I ran back into the house and gathered up the necessary cleaning supplies, then raced back outside to make sure Nikita, our escape artist, was not pulling a Houdini from the yard. I called to her and she looked at me, but didn't come back. So I stepped forward to retrieve her. In my haste I failed to look where I stepped and I skidded in a fresh pile of Dashiell diarrhea. And when I looked up Mr Dog was just parking his car.
So instead of a beautiful cake and a delicious heap of ribs, his birthday was ushered in with a frantic wife and a steaming pile of shit. Happy Birthday, Dave. Happy birthday.