One Easter, Rob's sister brought her wee bairn to our tiny house for a visit. While the rest of us were distracted by a wild and crazy game of Mario Kart, Sister-in-law busted out the baby supplies and started changing the niece's turd-filled diaper on the new duvet cover. Immediately, Rob and I objected. "Woman! There's poop in there! Where exactly is your head at?"
"It's just poop" she replied, continuing her nasty and dangerous task.
"Exactly," we said. "Poop is poop! And poop is disgusting! Beds are not changing tables! Top sheets are not toilet paper!"
"You'll feel differently when it's your kid," she said, unphased, while we looked on in horror.
You'll feel differently when it's your kid. About poop? Like...it won't be gross? It will smell like roses? How will I ever feel differently about something so stinky and stain-y? No. I will always think gross things are gross.
Well, now I have a dog.
You may not know this about dogs: they have very efficient digestive systems, or something like that. Meaning they poop quite a bit—often and in large quantities. And I pick this poop up. I put my hand in a little orange bag laced with baby powder, and I scoop up the poop, tie the bag in a knot and throw it in the nearest garbage receptacle. Dog poop isn't the only nasty thing I handle now that I'm a dog mom. I've also dealt with dog vomit, dog snot, dog pee, dog eye-boogers, and dog penis-fur snarls. I smell dog breath, kiss dog lips, and I often leave my house covered in dog hair. My life, my clothes, my home used to be clean and sanitary. Now, at any given time, everything I am and everything I own is covered with a solid layer of kanine saliva and millions of invisible germs.
And guess what? It's still disgusting.
You're right. My dog is not my child. I did not birth this furry beast. But I do love, feed, nurture, and care for this furry beast. I touch all his nastiness and smellables because someone's gotta do it. But it grosses me out every time. And you know what? It should. You know why? Because it's gross.
The takeaway message is this: we deal with all the disgustingness of small helpless creatures because someone has to. My dog doesn't have the mobility to poop in the toilet. And he can't pick up his own turds. Well...he could pick them up in his mouth and I'm sure he would if I let him, but that's not the point. We have these dogs and these babies because we want to love them and take care of them. Poop is part of the package. I don't like it, but I can tolerate it.
Not on my bed, though. Not. On my. Bed.