I hate poop. So much. I don't know how I am going to do diapers with kids. I hate seeing it. I hate smelling it. I hate picking it up. I hate stepping in it. I hate cleaning it. This is a universal hatred that is non-discriminatory. People, animals. It doesn't matter.
There is a puppy who lives in 36 that does not belong to me or Tracey. He has yet to learn that carpet, linoleum, couches, beds, people, and concrete are not places to relieve himself. I'm pretty sure that thinks those are actually the places he is supposed to poop because he does it so often. Either that or he hates me and Tracey which is also entirely possible.
Awhile back, while we were enjoying breakfast, Caleb started barking in the little ones direction. Despite being deaf, little one heard the bark, started spinning in circles and as I looked up to see what was going on, I saw something fly across the room and hit the wall. I thought it was a wet leaf until Tracey asked if it was poop. Being the inquisitive young lady I am, I went to examine it.
The Official End
2 months ago