Party Pooper

I'm only sharing this story because I've heard my son retell it twice already, and the way he tells it...well, let's just say that I have some splainin' to do.

I was in the bathroom.  (Don't all good stories start out this way?)  Anyway, I was in the bathroom, and it's rather integral that I tell you I was engaged in the business of #2.  Sorry-- just try not to picture it.  (Although, I do make a lovely figure on the pot.)

So there I was, finishing up, when I heard a yell coming from the living room.  It was Ruby, and I knew something was seriously amiss.  She had a breathless quality to her tone that indicated a certain amount of franticness.  

"Mom?  Mom?!  MOM!"

I poked my head out of the bathroom door and answered, hoping that I could easily solve the problem and get back to the business at hand.

"What's wrong with Carson?  What's wrong with her?!" Ruby gasped.

Oh, gosh.  The dog.  Did she keel over or something?  I couldn't see a dang thing, stuck on the john and all.

"What's she doing?" I asked, still calm.  One thing you should know about me is I'm an under-reactor in trauma situations.  I would almost say that I'm the perfect person to have with you in an emergency except for the fact that the very definition of under-reacting is evidence to the contrary.

"I don't know what she's doing!  I can't find her!" Ruby yells back, voice cracking.  LM begins to bawl.

Oooookaaaaaay.  At this point I'm at a loss.  Clearly my children are in a state of real crisis, but they are unable to tell me what is happening-- in fact, they are unable to even tell me IF anything is happening at all.  

"If you can't see her, how do you know something is wrong with her?" I holler out the door.  By now the kids are both gasping for air they're bawling so hard.  I'm beginning to realize my time in the bathroom will be cut unfortunately short.

"I heard her yelping!" comes the shrieking reply.

Well, this I can work with.  This is evidence!  Evidence that something indeed is wrong!  I hopped off the throne and jumped into action-- pants pooled around my ankles.  I searched all of the dog's known hangouts.  Meanwhile, the kids are in helpless, blathering heaps on the living room floor, sure that their beloved pet is dying in some hidden corner of the house.  I finally find the dog.  She's rolling on LM's bedroom carpet downstairs.  She's wagging her tail, having a grand ol' time, oblivious to the commotion upstairs.  

I went back upstairs to finish my business.

Why tell you all this?  Because my son is probably going to share with you that his mother went on a partially clothed doghunt sans proper wiping.  How do I know he'll say this?  Because he's already informed two of his little friends and his father.  But I DID wipe-- I did!  Don't believe that kid!  Remember, he was the one who was insisting our idiot dog was croaking when in fact she was having a heyday down on the berber.  Clearly he gets his facts confused.  

And, I washed my hands, too.  I'm a wiper and a washer.

Stupid dog....