Oh just ew and damn.

I just ate something disgusting.

I've said before that in moments of paralyzing horror I tend to have ridiculous breakdowns that involve hysterical laughter and the inability to move.

Where all I can do is stand in the place of discovery and say, "Oh nooooooooooooooooooooooo", like a hundred times until my brain catches up with the situation at hand.

Well, I had one of those moments last night.

When I was standing, half-awake in the kitchen, nearly done closing up the house for business so we could go to bed, and I realized the door to the backyard was still open.

This discovery, in and of itself, is not a big deal. We leave it open to ease the wretched heat in our oven house and also so the creatures can go in and out freely to get some relief from their hot fur coats. It's usually a very symbiotic and peaceful existence with the backdoor open. Everyone comes and goes as they please and the house does not implode from extreme heat.

Winners all around!

Except last night when I realized it was open and it was also dark (we usually bring everyone in and close it down before, say, the dead of night) and when I called Jada the first time she didn't come springing into the house like her normal obedient and cheerful self.

And that is when my evening began its rapid descent down the toilet.

I smelled something bad.

And then I called the dog again.

And then I watched her slowly appear in the darkness and apprehensively approach the house.

And then she came into the dim light of the back porch.

And THEN I had my moment of Oh Noooooooooooooooooo.

She had a giant inky-black streak from neck to tail. And some big smears on her hind legs. And a very guilty/euphoric look on her face.

*stream of consciousness* ...That shade of brownish black looks familiar. Kind of like that black mystery doot in the yard. And didn't Bubba see a possum running along our fence the other night? Jada likes to chase possums...*stream of consciousness*

Which is when I realized that my blissful retreat to bed was not to be had because OH YAY THE DOG HAS SOLVED THE BLACK POO MYSTERY and HOW SPECIAL she celebrated her discovery by having a clandestine somersault contest with the possum and all of its shit.

So I stood quietly in the kitchen, fully engrossed in my state of extreme horror, and watched my vision of bedtime go right out the window. Thankfully Jada has learned what to do when I act like this. That it's best not to make any sudden movements that might touch off a full blown bought of hysteria and better to sit quietly in a state of shame and sullen obedience until further notice.

It was everywhere on her. The Mark of the Possum. Chest, back, legs, belly, tail. And after a quick test wipe with a towel it became clear that, not only was this definitely poo, it was also not going to just wipe right off all easy like that. Oh no. This was going to require a bath.

And did I mention that we've never bathed the dog in the year and half we've had her because I'm a horrible dog mom and she never gets dirty so why would I torture her for no reason?

Yes, it's true. I have never bathed our dog. She is such a low maintenance beast 99% of the time that a good brushing will take care of most evils and the rest can be handled with her ritualistic lawn rolling in the yard (where there's normally no poo) or spontaneous swims in the fountain at work.

And since I never give her a bath, you know I don't have any doggie shampoo just hanging out in the house just waiting to be used in a stinky situation like this. Thankfully I had a very large refill bottle of Softsoap that'd been taking FOREVER to get rid of and THANK GAWD because it was that or the crappy TJ's dishsoap that smells like a horse's ass anyway and wouldn't have improved our situation that much.

I won't lie, I briefly contemplated letting the shitty dog come in the house and just go to bed, sans-bath. But, given my crippling aversion to all things filthy, I dissed that idea and came to mournful grips with the fact that I was about to put on work clothes and spend the next hour hosing possum crap off the dog by flashlight.

In my Crisis Manager Mode, I ended up washing the dog down from head to toe with Softsoap and the garden hose while ripping anew the threadbare ass of my favorite work pants that Bubba keeps threatening to steal and burn.

Picture that, will you? 10:30pm, hunching over the dog with the hose running, Bubba holding her back from re-pursuing the possum, pants ripping and feeling the evening's breeze meeting meaningfully with my entire left butt cheek, smell of possum poo in the air.

Dreamy, no?

If I'd only known then that I'd also get to discover the dead stinky Beast itself in the morning when I returned from running, my night would have been complete.

I love my dog.

Allow me to sample your hot dog, mom. Just to be sure.