Puppies. Pee. Poop.

Okay, I'm typing quickly today, trying to watch the dog with one eye and the computer screen with another. You see, we got a new puppy this weekend and today is the first day I'm home alone with him. It is a little like having a toddler, but with less warning when they decide to defecate explosively all over your precious hardwood flooring.

Tony and I already had one dog, an eight-pound Yorkshire Terrier we got the same day we got married a year and a half ago. Sargent York is a beautiful, well-trained dog. He's a little high-strung, but that's a small price to pay for never having to chase him around with paper towels and a bottle of Lysol, screaming "NO NO BAD DOG!" Of course, we had a few issues when he was first home, but now he uses his puppy pads religiously, also saving us from having to go outside in the freezing cold, rain or blistering heat, all of which are surprising common in Cincinnati. Also, because we live on the third floor of a condominium building, a potty break is a bit more time-consuming than in a house where you just open the door and toss them in the backyard. Here, you have to grab them or get them to go out in the hall on their own, then get them on the elevator, then off the elevator, then out the back door into the parking lot. We have one tiny strip of mulched flowerbeds at the back of the parking lot, which is quickly becoming a mulched bed of doggie do from the neighbors who don't clean up after their dogs. (People, take a bag with you. It is not that hard.)

Anyhow, Sarge has been trained to his pads since the middle of the first week we had him. Rarely, he'll mistake the bathmat for a puppy pad and take a rogue tinkie, but beyond that, he's good.

Enter Beauregard, our new 11-week-old Bouvier des Flanders puppy. I picked him up from the airport on Friday afternoon, and I should have just sent him back then. He'd messed, understandably, in his kennel. It was the worst smell I've ever smelled in my life. I had to drive home with all the windows and the sunroof open in my Mini Cooper. Thank God it was sunny. I made a call on the way home to Tony:

ME: "YOU HAVE TO LEAVE WORK NOW!!!"
Tony: "Why, babe? Is the dog hurt?"
Me: "SOMEONE HAS TO GIVE THIS THING A SHOWER AND IT ISN'T GOING TO BE ME!"
T: "Okay, babe, stop screaming. I'll see if I can leave."
Me: "IF YOU DON'T LEAVE, I'M BRINGING HIM TO YOUR OFFICE AND LEAVING HIM IN THE PARKING LOT!!!! HE SMELLS LIKE THINGS THAT HAVE BEEN DEAD FOR A WEEK!"

Tony was remarkable all weekend, giving Beau not one, but two showers, the next on Saturday when we dared leave for more than 10 minutes and he had an accident in his kennel again, and cleaning up two accidents on the floor. (The dog is having digestive issues, which I understand because he just left his pack and travelled halfway across the country in a plane, which is not a natural form of transportation for a Bouvier.)

Every time we took him out, we had to pick him up and carry him out the door. Did I mention he weighs 25 pounds and his head comes to our knees when he's standing still? He's...large. So, we haul him outside, where he does a pretty good job of pottying. And manages to stay near without the leash.

Friday night, he slept in his kennel, but we didn't sleep much because he was whining a lot. Saturday night, he had to go out at 2, which was not that big a deal until he came back in and Sarge lost his mind, barking ferociously at this "intruder." I think the entire condo complex probably appreciated that. Last night, he slept for seven hours straight, which was wonderful. Tony took him out twice this morning, once before and once during breakfast. When Tony left, I mistakenly thought we were okay on the potty front. Tony called 10 minutes after he left to check in.

"We're good, babe. He's been playing with Sarge and is doing really well. I think we are going to be okay until NO BEAU NO NO NO NO! HE'S POOPING IN THE FIREPLACE, ALL OVER THE SLATE HEARTH!!! NO NO NO!!!"

Ten minutes of scrubbing, self-recrimination and crying later, we'd cleaned up. After that, he didn't leave my sight. I got in the shower, locking him in the bathroom with me and sticking my head out the door every 20 seconds to see if he was pooping. We were clear. I got dressed, fixed my makeup and hair, never letting him out of my site.

I loaded some laundry up, calling him to me every time he wandered away. Then I made my critical error. I went in the bedroom for 30 seconds to put on my watch and wedding ring. By the time I came out, he'd peed all over the hardwood. Time for the Lysol and the self-abuse.

We went outside right after that, but he had done all his business. When we came in, I got on IM to talk to Tony.

Me: THIS DOG JUST PEED ON THE FLOOR. I'M GETTING RID OF HIM.
Tony: Babe, it will be fine, just give him two weeks and he'll be all trained.
Me: IN TWO WEEKS, THIS HOUSE WON'T BE WORTH LIVING IN!
Tony: Oh, that's right - two people at work are interested in buying the place - I sent the link.
Me: BE SURE TO TELL THEM THAT IT WILL BE SOAKED IN PEE AND POOP BY THE TIME THEY GET IT!
Tony: Babe, it will be fine. Stop.
Me: WELL, YOU BETTER MAKE SOME ******* MONEY. IF YOU CAN'T BE HERE SCRUBBING **** and ****** OFF THE FLOOR WITH ME, YOU BETTER EARN A LOT.

And so on. He has the patience of a saint. And he knows he's got the better end of the deal, getting to run off to work while my day is broken by potty breaks, Lysol and shame.

See, the problem is, I take every potty accident as a commentary on my ability as a doggie-mom. Beauregard poops or pees on the house, it is my fault. I should be more vigilant, more on it than I am. The truth is, he's a puppy with serious stomach issues in a new house. None of it is anyone's fault. All I can do is take him out once an hour, in the pouring rain (no joke - it rained yesterday and is supposed to rain for the next four days) and see if he needs to go. Anything beyond that is just accidental.

Speaking of which, time to go out. Where are those galoshes?