The Cous Strikes Again

You know the saying that you need a vacation after your vacation?  I get it now. While our Disney trip was amazing, it was exhausting.  At the end of it all, I just wanted to sleep in, head to the airport, pop a xanax, and wake up at home in my bed, where I could chill out for a few days before reemerging to reality.  But alas, it didn't exactly happen like that. 

The return trip itself was somewhat of a disaster.  After refusing to use the airplane toilet (because of  "the loud"), Braden preferred to soil himself, and announce it to the rest of the plane.  Loudly.  Once we landed, in a rush to get him off of said plane, I picked him up and soiled my own shirt in urine.  This is on top of my orange juice soiled jeans, thanks to Braden spilling his juice all over me mid-flight.  

When we got home, all I wanted to do was purge myself of urine and citrus and lay in bed and catch up on Real Housewives episodes.  But alas, there was laundry to do and kids to feed.  And on top of that, we had a party to plan.  Casey's birthday was that very day, and his party was planned for Saturday, at our house.

[Before continuing on, I must write this note to myself: NEVER AGAIN HAVE A PARTY AT YOUR HOUSE!  Thank you.]

Since I was so focused on planning our vacation, Casey's birthday party planning had gone to the wayside a bit.  I don't generally do high maintenance parties, but even the basics were up in the air the day before the party.  What to serve?  What to play?  Who did I invite again? 

Family descended upon us on Friday.  Of course it's wonderful to see everyone, but it is also overwhelming and exhausting and hard to party plan and clean with everyone here.  So needless to say, by Saturday I was stressed and tired and just wanted things to go smoothly.

And things were going smoothly.  Until Cous.  (That's our dog.  Or really, my husband's dog).

While I was decorating the house for the party, some family members took the kids outside to play on our backyard swing set.  I was finally getting into the groove of decorating and enjoying the silence, when I heard shrieks coming from outside, quickly followed by my husband yelling "Cous!"

I said a silent prayer:  Please don't let this involve poop or the eating of poop or poop on any children, especially my own. 

As it turned out, Cous was not covered in poop, and neither were any children.  Instead, Cous had immersed herself and her fur and her being into something horrible.  Something wretched.  Something that smelled so bad, we had to assume it was some kind of rotting animal carcass, that was eaten by another animal who then died, and had its own carcass die on top of that other carcass.  And then again and again and again.  It was a smell so horrific it permeated the air and the atmosphere and the world and, unfortunately, our house.

And you know the worst part?  Cous looked so pleased with herself.  Like really proud.   

My husband stripped down and threw her in the shower and scrubbed her.  A lot.  By the time she got out she was smelling like flowery doggy shampoo and I thought we were out of the woods.  I went on to stressing about the placement of balloons and the baking of pigs in the blanket (okay, my husband did that, but I still stressed about it a little). 

Then, about an hour before the party was to begin, we started smelling something again.  This time, it didn't smell like animal carcass.  It smelled like poop.  Like really, really bad smelling poop.  Our poor niece, who is still in diapers, got the first accusing glances.  "I think she needs a diaper change," I told my mother in law.

After the nose in the diaper check revealed it was not our innocent niece, we started smelling other butts.  Braden's butt.  Casey's butt.  And then, Cous's butt.

It was a fart.  A dog fart.  But an awful, awful dog fart.  My hope that this was a one-off was soon quashed, as a few minutes later it happened again.  And again.  And again.  I can't be sure of what happened to Cous in the woods behind our house or what exactly she rolled in, but I began to wonder if she not only smashed her body into the evil stew, but ingested it as well.  So now not only would our guests be jumped on and scratched and have their nostrils licked, but they also would be subject to the wrath of our dog's gas.

The guests arrived.  The gas continued.  And when I overheard a few guests say, "Do you smell that?" I just pretended not to hear them.

At the end of the day, the party was fine.  We had fun and the guests had fun and Casey ate cake.  But in the aftermath of the party, when I sat down to have a glass of one of the four big bitches of wine we bought that no one actually drank (note to self: stop buying big bitch wine for kids parties, no one drinks it), she was still at it.  And my God, it was awful.

To our party guests, I apologize and hope it didn't ruin your time.  Or your evening.  Or your weekend for that matter.

The good news is, it didn't seem to bother the birthday boy.  Except every so often, he would break out in a brief, hysterical cry.  And I can't help but wonder if it is because he was hit by the fog of the Cous...