Our black lab, Blackie (creative, right? I didn't name her. And neither did the kids.), has earned herself a new name. Now instead of just basic Blackie, we shall call her Barfy von Horkinchow. In complete stealth mode - no small trick for a 80 pound dog! - she managed to find one of only two carpeted places in the whole downstairs to yak up what must have been a cubic foot of very slightly digested dog food. Completely silently. My first inkling that something was amiss was Q's cry of, "Yucky! Yucky! Yucky!" in chorus with Z telling me, "Mama, look what Blackie did!"
I flew to the kitchen to get some paper towels/a shovel/a wheel barrow to clean up what amounted to $10-worth of designer dog food soaking into the carpet. All the while shouting to Q, "Don't touch!" and to Z, "Please move!" and to the dogs, "Oh, no you don't!" (A dog looks at a steaming pike of vomit and thinks, "Yum! Snacks!") I managed to clean it up before anything else disgusting happened, then went into the kitchen to boil my hands all the way up to my neck.
Why do we have dogs again? Oh, yeah. They bring us such joy. Hmph.