As has been documented in this space previously, I don't squat still when I poop. Pooping is a waste of time, which is why humans read when they do it. I am not granted this luxury. When I hold a magazine and poop, I tip over.
I consider myself house trained with benefits. Before I lived with my parents, I went on the pads. When I arrived here, I took to doing my business outside right away, unless it was too cold, wet, windy, or I was not so inclined.
Usually, I poop on the pads. I still roam around a bit, but mostly I hit the target. The pads are placed in front of the north bedroom door. It is closed unless someone needs the room for storage or random spurts of exercise. The bathroom and laundry room are to the east and west of the two pads. (Mommy tapes them together to make them longer believing the bigger the landing strip you have the least likely I am to crash).
Usually, I drop my load on the pads, but occasionally I don't a factor for the artificial wind created by the heat or air conditioning which pushes my poop wide. It ends up on the wood patterned illuminate floor — a regrettable flooring choice for someone who lives in the house of falling turds.
I am a considerate pup. If I have passed on pooping in the morning or early evening and that unrelenting all familiar urge arises while my parents are eating in the kitchen within sight and smell distance of my pads I poop behind mommy's recliner. Pocket does her best to recycle the evidence. Sometimes it takes a bit of time for the result of my mealtime mystery to be spotted. It is a pleasant surprise for visitors.
In the past two weeks, I have set the bar very high by performing two of the most significant achievement in pupdum.
The upper decker and the three-room Johnson.
I didn't try for an upper decker. Sometimes poop happens. My parents were out of the house. I was pacing between windows. I had to stand on my back legs to see out of the kitchen window. The back of the lift chair provided me access to the first living room window. I had to get on an end table to see out the other living room window
I must be on alert for when my parents are out. I can't be lollygagging down where the pads are. If, during this time I need poop, I have to let it rip wherever I stand. If my parents wanted clean floors, they never should have left the house.
On this particular Saturday, as was pacing, I felt the urge to poop. I was pooping and walking like like a teenage ninja pooper when I heard a noise in the backyard. Without finishing, I jumped onto the loveseat and then onto the end table. I searched the yard. It was all clear.
I climbed down. Pocket, who was in her crate, mostly for own protection, said: “look at what you did.”
I had left in the very center of the table standing up straight like a rocket a perfect turd. “You are going to get in trouble,” Pocket said.
“What do you mean trouble?” I asked. “This is a work of art. Did Vincent van Gogh get in trouble for “Starry Nights”? Did Munch for The Scream?”
“I'm pretty sure they didn't poop on anybody's end table,” Pocket said. Humph. What did she know about art?
My parents were more astonished than angry when they saw my art. They asked me how I managed to do it. An artist never reveals her secrets.
And that is how I did the upper decker.
A few nights later, I completed the three-room Johnson. I was pooping on the pads. I saw the bedroom door was open slightly. I did my incontinent Groucho walk towards it. I hit the door free with my head turned to drop the turd. I made it over to the laundry room to lose another. I saved one in the shoot to deposit in the bathroom. I was not even counting the hallway that's a three-room Johnson.
My parents were less impressed with us, and then they were with the upper decker. A three-room Johnson is on an acquired art.
I was excited earlier this week when I saw that my friends Artie and Mabel had gone to the Utah desert. If they had just traveled to the borders of Colorado, Utah, New Mexico and Arizona.
For now, that is the top item on my bucket list.