Though we've been here for a few weeks now, I'm still adjusting to our new way of life, where mosquitoes grow to the size of rabid raccoons and pizza delivery is this cool thing that city folk do. On a few occasions, our pugs have ventured to the bordering farmer's field adjacent to the property. One evening a few days ago, I shared my concerns with my husband Dan, that the farmer next door would shoot one of the dogs wandering on his property. His response: "Jen, we're in southern New Jersey. It's 2012. No one is going to shoot the dogs."
I took baby leper in my arms and asked Dan if the farmer was shooting at the pugs. I looked down at Danny. He had mud smeared across the bottoms of his feet and squished between his toes. The farmer must've killed the pugs! Dan snickered at me. "Jen. The farmer is not going to shoot the pugs." Ok, so that part must've been a dream...but the yell was real. And so was the mess on Danny. What really happened was worse. So much worse.
One of our well-behaved pug children had taken a massive poop in Danny's playroom at some point in time between 10 p.m. and 7 a.m. After some light detective work, our toddler explorer uncovered the hidden treasure, steamrolling through it with his Fisher Price walker like he was laying down pavement. Then he did just what any other toddler explorer would do - he rolled his shit mobile all through the house: through his playroom, down the hallway, around the kitchen island, to the door, and back through the kitchen to his playroom again.
There was shit. Everywhere. I never would've believed a pug poo could have covered so much square footage if I hadn't seen it myself.
Dan and I have decided, the pugs are grounded until they're 18.