It’s approximately 6:30 AM. I’m half asleep, in a cold sweat on my Great Aunt’s relatively uncomfortable Duncan Phyfe sofa. The kid is in his bassinet finally asleep.
I was dreaming I was pregnant again. Before my sleep deprived brain can even process the terror that grips my heart, Tilghman jams his panting jowls in my face.
Things become a little less hazy. Last night Chris mentioned Tilghman was suffering from some intestinal distress. I bolt from prone position. I beg him to be patient. I’m racing down the basement stairs with him. My feet are bare.
And that’s when I feel it. . .Cold, wet, slimy cat vomit!!! All over my shoeless left foot. I mentally form a litany of curse words. Demonstrating commendable self-restraint, I keep them from actually escaping my mouth. Shitfuckdamnmotherfucker.
I’m standing at the threshold of my exterior basement door marveling at the colon explosion Satan’s Lap Hound is producing in our tiny concrete yard and wiping cat vomit off my foot when I hear Bill.
Bill is our wonderful, young, smart, single neighbor. He’s sharply dressed in well fitting trousers and a lovely shirt. He looks crisp and well rested and happy. He peers down at me from his deck.
“Um Hi Deni. You are looking very (pause, pause) Asian this morning.”
“Oh Hi Bill. Yeah. It’s really just a cheap moo-moo.”
Jesus I can’t believe he has to look at me in this cheap polyester yellow extra large caftan/moo moo monstrosity. I look like Mrs. Roper. I could make a self deprecating Mrs. Roper joke. Wait. Fuck. He’s too young to even know who the hell Mrs. Roper is
“Bill,” I say in my most spirited voice, “As you can see, it’s been kinda’ a long night around here and now the dog seems to be having a colon explosion all over our yard. Lately, I seem to spend my days cleaning up all sorts of exciting excrement.”
Bill half squints at me. “Hey yeah, I’m sure you do. I really like that thing you’re wearing. Is that silk?”
Oh Bill. . .You dress so nicely. You definitely know this isn’t silk. Unless of course you need your eyes checked.
I avoid the question. “Thanks. It’s covered in vomit.”
Bill gives me a more concerned squint. “Ok, well you have a really good day, Deni.”
“Wait, it’s not my own vomit,” I exclaim perhaps just a little too loudly for the hour.
But it’s too late. The door whooshes shut.
And I’m left alone in a yard full of dog diarrhea, covered in baby and cat puke.