Shithouse

Recently,  me and J put our heads together and came to the conclusion that we weren’t stressed or tired enough as it is and should definitely introduce a puppy to the mix just to tip us into the realm of complete chaos. Of course we instantly regretted our decision but here we are, 2 kids and a puppy deep winging it.

So we’d just adopted this puppy, and when I say puppy I mean absolutely huge Saluki the size of a horse. We had envisioned the bedtime cuddles, the cute photo’s with the kids, the lovely scenic family walks with absolutely NO tantrums. Well what a couple of twats we were.

First of all, they shit and piss everywhere and not small little accidents you can clear up with a baby wipe. Huge accidents that involve mopping and bleaching and towels and washing your sofa covers 6 times a bloody week. They chew everything too, luckily we own nothing that’s worth more than about £15 but still, kinda annoying. When you finally get them to take themselves outside to do all this shit you then realise you yourself have to take yourself outside every night to clean it all up or your garden becomes ‘that garden on the street’. I now have twice as much shit in nappy bags filling my house up waiting for bin day and I honestly can’t remember why I thought this would be a good idea? Or why anyone in the world does for that matter.

We’ve taken to leaving the back door open for him whilst were home to minimise the shitting in house situations. This is mostly a great idea until H escapes out there without me realising for 20 minutes. Me and the boys are at home one weekend and I notice all is too quiet to be OK and instantly envision H in the garden crawling through dog shit. I go out there and of course, that’s exactly what’s happened. H is sitting on the grass, head to toe in dog shite smiling at me. This wouldn’t be such a horrific sight if my garden wasn’t easily view able by every single one of our nosy neighbours. I start psyching myself up for the social services call on the spot. N’s behind me shouting ‘Baby Poo Poo’ at the top of his lungs and I can’t even bring myself to start attempting to sort this situation out. In the end I pick H up by his one semi shit-free feet and throw him under the shower fully clothed.

I also now have to deal with N being obsessed with the dog doing a wee. I don’t know why but as soon as he goes outside, N leaps to attention and must go and watch from 5 cm away, piss splashing his face I’m sure. I then rinse it off the grass with the hose and OF COURSE the boys must get involved; sucking stagnant water out the hose like they haven’t been offered a drink 10 times that hour and definitely haven’t refused it profusely. Doubling up on their vitamins from now on (when I actually buy some let’s be honest).  The dog walks are just as much of a nightmare. N walk’s nicely for about 30 seconds before the inevitable ‘Up mummy up!!!!!!!!’ is shouted. Que me trying to hold his feet so he doesn’t topple off my shoulders, entertain the baby H strapped to my chest and keep the dog from leaping over any person within a 5 mile radius of us all. I physically have to force back tears if I see another dog coming towards us… the chaos.

How these Instagram families make it all look so easy I don’t know. My house is full of shit, the kids are covered in it and I leave for work covered in so much dog hair I could pass for a naked Yeti.

Luckily I haven’t had a call from CPS or the RSPCA just yet so you could say we’re coping rather well.

 

 

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