Honestly, I don’t know how much more I can take. The partially-cleaned carpet stains are right near my feet as I type. The smell isn’t so much overbearing, as is it a curiosity-inducing “what is that?” Every once in a while, the acidic sweetness of urine wafts past my nose. See, my dog wasn’t feeling too well the other night. Or she was mad at me. Or she was lonely and didn’t think I was ever coming home. I have no way of knowing if anything goes through her brain except “I have GOT to get rid of this crap ASAP!” Being the sensitive female that she is, she made sure she did it out of the way of the main thoroughfares of my house, hoping not to disturb order too much. But did she ever dump a load or two. Sweet thing.
But between you and me, when I got home Sunday about 2am to find these lovely deposits, I was too worn out to really clean it up. I picked up the biggest chunks…and left the rest. The remnants. And I’m guessing that’s what I’m smelling right now. So I’ve lit a candle. That buys me some time before I really have to dig in and clean up her…my mess. She made it; then it became my mess. It’s no longer hers. Dogs have no ownership of their messes. This is where we differ. I own my messes. Or at least, I’m supposed to. And I can’t help but wonder if my life is filled with lit candles covering up the rank odor of my sloppy depravity.
I can’t know completely how to answer that. But I can begin by cleaning the carpet today. And when I see something else that needs cleaning, clean that. It’s easy to light a candle. But I don’t want to be a person who walks through all of life’s crap simply smelling artificial cinnamon scents.