Don't Sit!!!!

Kimmy had just complemented Kevin on his pooping etiquette when the trouble began.  “He really is considerate in picking his spots,” she bragged.  I agreed, as the three of us watched Kevin find a remote patch on the U.S.C. Campus and assume pooping position.

He finished, and as  I pulled out a bag to clean up after him he abruptly resumed pooping position about a foot away from his original optimal spot.

“Here we go,” I groaned. 

“Oh, no,” said Kimmy.

“What?” asked Luke, who is relatively new to Kevin’s elimination enterprises.

“He needs more time,” I explained to Luke.  “It’s another reluctant turd.”

The three of us stared at Kevin, who looked away, embarrassed.  He then managed, somehow, while maintaining pooping position, to turn his body 15 degrees clockwise so we were no longer looking at him head on.

The pressure gets to him.  (Pooping is not a spectator sport.)  

The three of us turned our backs and sat down to give him a bit of privacy.  After several minutes I looked over my shoulder.  Kevin appeared to be done. 

“Good boy, Kevin!” I said and we all stood.  Kevin walked a few steps and resumed his pooping position.

I sighed, getting impatient.  “Come on, Kevin,” I urged. 

But apparently that was a bit TOO MUCH PRESSURE ON POOR KEVIN’S SENSITIVITY and he sat.

“NO!!!!!” I screamed.

But it was too late. 

His backside was smeared with #%$@&. 

I had a Kleenex in my pocket that I used in a valiant attempt to clean up.  And, to be clear, using that Kleenex on his tail was like putting out a stinkin’ forest fire with an eyedropper of water.

“Crap!” I said, ironically, emptying my pockets.  “No more Kleenex.”

Kimmy suggested I use one of the plastic bags.

However, I’d lost my composure by then and, in all the excitement, I didn’t consider putting my hand inside the bag.  Rather I folded the bag in half and incompetently dragged it down Kevin’s #%*$  fur trying to slide the  #%*$ off the ends of his filthy fluff. 

Except somehow the bag slipped away and with horror I realized my bare fingers were sliding through fluffy poo.    

I gagged.  Kimmy giggled.  Luke was just plain nauseated.  

But Kevin was feeling liberated.

The rest of the story is rather anticlimactic.  I wiped my hands all over the grass to clean off the #%$@& – as best I could-  and we went in search of a bathroom.   

We wandered through the deserted campus (it’s winter break), Kimmy holding the leash. Because it's impossible to hold a leash with jazz hands.

We ultimately ended up at a downtown theater that was rehearsing for an upcoming show.  The cast was oblivious to the real drama occurring between the lobby bathroom and the front porch.   

Where poor Kevin was enduring a sponge bath.  Using wet, soapy paper towels from the bathroom.

After nine trips in and out of the lobby bathroom Kevin's backside was relatively clean.  

But we still had to get home.  In my car.  And nobody wanted Kevin to sit on their lap.

“I’ll drive home,” I said.

“I’ll dirve,” said Kimmy.

“No, I’ll drive,” Luke said.

In the end, I won drove.  Kimmy remembered the bag of Good Will clothes in my trunk and pulled out a shirt to cover her lap on which Kevin parked his mostly clean, soapy butt for the drive home.  

But there’s definitely a lesson learned here.

Never pressure a pooping Pomeranian.