3 a.m. on the dot. Our superhero awakes, blinks, gathers strength for what may lie ahead. Saucy Red Dog is on the second floor, a bit agitated.
“What is it, girl?”
Timmy has not fallen in the well. I know this because 1) we don’t have a well and 2) we don’t know anyone named Timmy. But something equally terrible may be happening downstairs. It is very unlike Saucy Red Dog to pace and jingle upstairs at 3 a.m. She usually stays downstairs, with her sick brother, Mr. F.
I opt for David’s brown robe instead of my pale pink one. Saucy Red Dog and I hurry down the stairs. She is 8 years old (give or take half a year) and surprisingly spry when there is a mission at hand.
“What is it, girl?”
Mind you, Saucy Red Dog is not a pointer-type canine. She is a strange Tigger-bouncing red-orange basenji-shepherd mix that we snatched off of death row at the CACC in East Harlem in 1999. (They’d already taken away her food and water, and were going to put her down within a few hours.) She is a bright funny comedienne of a dog, a Lucy of the dog world, but right now she is all business.
She points herself in the direction of the trouble, careful not to step in matters and make things worse.
Four or five globs of poo. Canine. What, like you’re surprised? Most likely her sick brother’s, and not hers. If Saucy Red Dog had not awakened me, and David had gone downstairs first for his morning coffee, two small children would have been scarred for life by the retching noises of their father.
“DADDY’S MAKING THE MAN VOMIT! DADDY’S MAKING THE MAN VOMIT NOISES! AAAAHH!”
It’s happened to them before, and they’re fragile now. Vulnerable. Sophie once went catatonic with fear at the sound of her papa tossing his cookies in the downstairs bathroom, convinced that a drunken monster of the underworld had broken in.
Man Vomit is no laughing matter. The hideous sounds can stay with you for the rest of your life. I can recall the very specific Man Vomit noises of each of my past loves. Although I tried always to be compassionate, the fact is, Man Vomit is nothing like Woman Vomit, or Little Girl Vomit in auditory quality. Man Vomit is shocking in its force and volume. Man Vomit is to Grendel as Woman Vomit is to, well, Grendel Lite. I am staring at the walls and can’t come up with better than that. It’s 3:30 a.m. Did I mention that?
I let them both out, Saucy Red Dog as an escort to her frail brother. I clean the floors, careful not to trail Mr. Man Vomit’s robe through the unfortunate incidents.
I let the dogs back in. Saucy Red Dog inspects the scene, relaxes. And then it hits me: she is rising to the challenge, taking her new place as my new sidekick. Mr. F has retired. In the past, he was always the one to show up beside my bed, staring at me in the dark, every muscle tensed, to let me know that Something Was Amiss or Afoot (i.e., cat on the porch, rumbling in his belly).
As I have said before, I never intended to use this blog as an outlet for scatalogical musings. But I am starting to feel like I have superhuman poo powers (ability to rise from deep slumber to immediate poo alert mode), and Saucy Red Dog has bravely stepped up to the Poo Plate to assist.
We need good superhero names, me and Saucy Red Dog. Saucy Red Log will not do. That’s where you come in. Everyone except poor KirstenSF, who will crumple into a heap of Woman Vomit if she is forced to endure any more poo. (KirstenSF, I promise I will cease and desist for a few posts. Beyond that, I cannot say. I am a slave to my destiny.)
The contest is open to anyone who can stomach it! Winner shall receive an autographed cartoon drawing of an iPoo!
MAMA! Is that DADDY MAN VOMIT?
Relax, kid. Mommy and Saucy Red Dog have got it all under control.
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