Wherein I talk about my dogs inability to produce a normal poop.

It seems as though my entire week has been focused on poo. That's right. I just went there. Kylie spent a lions share of Saturday through Tuesday in a state of complete digestive disrepair. It started on Saturday with a steady 24 hours of vomiting which turned into my favorite - diarrhea! She thoughtfully kept her anal leakage for the night hours, coming up to my side of the bed each time she needed to be let out (which was every hour on the hour). Consequentially I've wandered through much of this week with wild hair and bloodshot eyes muttering things like, "I HATE LOOSE STOOLS!" I've met a lot of new people this way. You should try it.

To wrap up, I took her for a walk yesterday and she poo'd normally, and act for which I did a slight jig on the sidewalk and then called everyone and shouted, "SHE DID IT! SHE POOPED!" Clearly, I need more excitement in my life. Either that or I'm overly prepared for parenthood. Regardless, Kylie is thrilled that I'm no longer following her out into the backyard to watch as she let out an audible "Pffffffffffft" along with the contents of her ass. She had taken to hiding behind every available vertical object just to shield herself from my eyes while she went. I imagine if she could speak she would be yelling something like, "OH THE HUMANITY!"

In addition to this weeks problems, my car started making a really weird sound on Monday. In sixteen years of neglectful auto ownership I've heard my fair share of jacked up car noises, but nothing that ever sounded like Cirque du Soleil came to town in my steering column. It's so out of nowhere and so ridiculous that when I hear it I can’t help screaming, “OH MY GOD, WHAT?” Then my car responds and I get kind of scared so I just settle back to ten-and-two and shut my mouth. The first few times I heard it I tried to convince myself it was my imagination so I wouldn't have to tell Marc about it. Because the second I go, "It's like a weeeeeeehaaaaaaaahhhh! sound," he's going to completely lose his shit.

And you know it's going to be one of those sounds that no one else will ever hear and after hours of me going, "No, wait, shhhh! Just listen. Keep driving. JUST KEEP DRIVING! FUCKING LISTEN!" and Marc looking at me as though all of that Zumba! might have twirled my brain in the wrong direction, I'll go insane and jam a nail clipper in his eye.

Having said that, I have to do something. I can't go on like this. The upshot is that I'm pretty sure a WEEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAHHHH! sound isn't indicative of something morbidly wrong, but it's like I'm driving around with a clown committing suicide underneath my steering wheel. Would a clown do that? Because they shouldn't.