Stress Relief

It was a normal Saturday, like any other; the slow increase in blood pressure that had accumulated over the course of the previous week had been momentarily thinned by the consumption of too many stiff cocktails the night before, and the morning sunshine was left to struggle vainly against the defenses of the deep sleep of relief. The alarm had been turned off well in advance of this particular morning. Harold and Marylyn Putrinski did not want to wake up; clean flannel sheets were pulled tight underneath cozy chins—one stubbled and one smooth, one slightly agape and one closed in a gentle smile. A cat, envious of the comfort of his masters, had given up trying to earn an early breakfast and had joined the pile of content and warmth.

"Mhhmm…" Harold muttered, trying to open his eyes. He inhaled deeply. "Mrhm? Uh… Oh shit!" —and he disturbed the serenity completely as he attempted to jump up quickly despite both of his legs still being asleep.

"What’s the matter?" Marylyn snapped, irritated at her husband and the unexpected jolt of chaos. She turned in bed only to have the cold damp spot of her own drool press against her cheek. She sat up.

"The damn dog shit on the floor again!" Harold expressed this fact with the kind of gruff bluntness that can only be summoned early in the morning on a Saturday. He succeeded in freeing his numb limbs from the bedcovers and shuffled away angrily, like a tranquilized rhinoceros. He made his way into the hall and began a futile search for cleaning supplies, cursing the whole time. Somewhere, Harold knew, there was a special enzymatic liquid that would eliminate all odors from whatever it touched. This was so that the dog, not being a very sophisticated animal, would not learn to associate the concept of "bedroom floor" with the concept of "bowel relief". Harold loved the fact that someone had invented a chemical solely to prevent dogs from thinking that their poop belonged inside the house, despite the fact that it never seemed to work. In addition to this magical odor-destroying spritzer there was a more traditional carpet cleaner for the stain, which typically came as a package deal along with the smell. There were paper towels and a small beach pail that was used often to hold warm water, just for such an occasion. And there were neat little white garbage bags, too.

"What do you expect? She can’t hold it, she’s too old." The words were spoken so softly that only another face, pressed close into the warm pillow, would have heard. A bit louder she added "The cleaner’s in the den, from last night!" and the grumpy footsteps stomped off in a new direction, toward the den—the scene of the prior evening’s dog-related mess.

"I’m gonna shoot that damned dog!" Harold bellowed up the stairs, and then he climbed them, returning to the scene of the crime like a grizzled homicide detective armed with a portable forensics lab of soaps and sprays. The cleaning began, and Marylyn finally roused herself enough to face the rest of the animalistic anarchy that had descended in the wake of the fecal tragedy: cats were swarming, the dog was sulking and yet still looking like it really had to be let out, and from down the stairs there was the crash as another, younger, dog hurled itself in desperation against the front door.

"You’re going to wake Charlie if you keep shouting!" shouted Marylyn. In the distance, a baby began to screech, as if on cue.