I woke up this morning to the sound of a cat retching. It was about 7am and I had not intended to get up that early, but when I discovered the gigantic pile of poop on the dining room rug I knew I was going to be up for the rest of the day. I kept gagging and had to leave the room. I’m not good with bodily fluids/solids. Anything like barf, poo, or blood and I’m out. Charlie got up to the sounds of my shrieking “Oh, my god!” and helped clean it up. I don’t know what happened, but at some point Alvy must have come down the stairs to deposit what appeared to be two days’ worth of saved-up poo.
Of course he was appropriately mortified when confronted with the mess. All we had to do was watch him sneak down the stairs with his ears straight back and his tail between his legs to know that he was the culprit.
Luckily, this is the first time something like this has ever happened with our dogs. When Kate used to live with us she would hole herself up in her bedroom for twelve hours at a time and her dog would frequently crap next to the door to the backyard. I’m sure, being smaller than ours, he couldn’t hold it for very long. But after a while I was sick of cleaning up his poop and trying to gingerly remind her to let him out once in a while. If she was in bed, he would stay down there with her. When our dogs went out he wouldn’t bother to leave her room and no amount of quietly calling his name would rouse him. But if she didn’t get up to let him out, he’d eventually take matters in to his own hands. I know it wasn’t the dog’s fault but sometimes I just wanted to kick him. Most of our dogs’ bad habits, they learned from him.
What bothers me is that I never heard Alvy get up. He didn’t whine to go out, which usually wakes us up, and he was out at midnight before we went to bed. So at some point yesterday he could have pooped but apparently decided to hold it in and ended up releasing a two pound pile between 12am and 7. Yuck.