A couple of days ago, I was at home with Gabby and the kids.
Gabby was napping after a long night shift at work, so functionally it had just been the girls and me all day. On top of that, it had been raining a lot, so all of us and the two dogs had been stuck inside. We bipedal beings were downstairs in the living room hanging out. More accurately, Lyla was wrestling with Charlotte on the floor and I was supervising to make sure one didn’t maim the other.
The dogs had disappeared at one point during the day as well. Sometimes they’ll go lay down in Lyla’s room for some reason, or the spare bedroom, or the master bedroom, but normally they hang out wherever we are. As if that isn’t odd enough, both dogs are labs and they dislike water. They both absolutely hate the rain. One will swim in a lake sometimes, but they don’t enjoy baths, the garden hose, kiddie pools, puddles… They’re peculiar animals.
That day it had been extra difficult to get them to go outside to do their business. At one point I even picked the black dog up, carried him outside, and plopped him down on the deck, where he just stared at me with the shocked look of betrayal.
But I digress.
Anyway, back to whippersnapper wrestling. Lyla was done doing suplexes and said she wanted to get something from upstairs in the big room.
We have a split-level house that had an additional level added on at some point, so I think technically it’s now a quad-level house… I’m not sure. All I know is that we have three half-flights of stairs and they become more tiring the higher up in the house I get. The big room is the highest (and biggest) room in the house.
So she abandoned Charlotte and me in the living room and disappeared beyond the gate upstairs.
She had been gone for several minutes when I heard her yell from upstairs, “Daddy! Daaaad-d-d-d-d-dyyyyy! Daddy, look, daddy, yucky! Daaaad-d-d-d-yyyy! Daaadyyy this is yucky!”
I hollered from the living room for her to come back downstairs, only to be met with more yells of yuckiness.
Finally, she started to hop down the stairs back to the living room, but this time she was saying, “Dad, look what I found! Look, Dad, Dad, Dad I found this! Dad! I found poop!”
Sure enough, she was carrying a turd-and-a-half in each hand.
One of the dogs had pooped upstairs.
I escorted her to the trash can where the respectable-sized deuce was safely deposited.
I asked her to show me where she had found the K-9 butt crumpets and I was promptly led upstairs to the white and gray area rug on the floor in the big room.
Surprisingly, there wasn’t any additional poop to be found. It seemed Lyla had successfully double-fisted all of the forbidden feculence on the first trip.