So Much Poop

The trip up from Florida was long, and hot, and stressful, but we made it in time to pick up the oldies from the airport. We unloaded and situated boxes in the garage, and that summer was spent fitting their old lives into their new home. Deanna was noticeably relieved to be here. Clyde was noticeably skeptical. They had a fence installed for their little seven pound miniature rate terrier, aptly named Thor. We added a couple more garden boxes to keep Clyde busy. Deanna set about making improvements to their house. Dawn and I settled in to a slightly new routine of checking in on them every couple of days, helping clean, push mowing and trimming, inviting them out to dinner, and generally just being present in their lives. I worked at our house, fervently ripping out and installing new landscaping. Dawn bought her dream—a small camper, and we escaped frequently because Deanna and Clyde were built in dog sitters. Deanna was happy to stay at our house, and Clyde enjoyed the solitude of a weekend alone or occasionally joined Deanna at our house. A simple, calm routine set in. The biggest event was Thor’s refusal to go out in the snow to potty. He met his match in Dawn, who simply tossed him outside until he learned that fluffy white stuff was not dangerous. We decided if these small changes were our biggest inconveniences, taking care of the oldies was not nearly as difficult as people made it out to be. That blissful ignorance soon disappeared in a day that lives in infamy in our family—the shit sprayer incident.

One nice Saturday morning in April of 2016, we prepared to go to my mom’s to help my nephew refinish the dining room table. We lounged around that morning, planning to meet my nephew at noon, but thanks to his Army Reserve physical, he said to put it off until later. Thank goodness for Army Reserve physicals because had the shit dried any more that day, we would have been using a chisel instead of a dustpan turned scooper.

Deanna called us at 10:30 that morning, out of breath and sounding desperate. Dawn answered and asked her mom if everything was all right. “No,” Deanna replied, “I,” she took a breath, “need,” breath, “you to come clean,” breath, “for me.” Dawn told her mom that we could come clean Sunday because we were headed to my mom’s house for the day. “No! I need you now! Clyde had an issue.”

We quickly agreed to go there immediately. We knew she was having out of town company in that week, but we could easily have cleaned on Sunday, and were planning on doing a thorough cleaning for her guests. The comment about Clyde having an issue scared us. He often missed the toilet, even using a urinal, so whomever drew the lucky straw to clean the bathroom was in for a gel-like scraping experience at times. But, surely, Deanna wouldn’t be frantic over a miss of the toilet, even a big miss. We had our answer soon enough.

Deanna met us at the door, apologizing, “I am so sorry. I just couldn’t handle it by myself.” We told her it was fine and that we would clean up whatever happened. Then the smell hit us. “Did he shit himself?,” asked Dawn? Deanna replied, “Yes, and the whole bathroom.”

We made it to the door of the bathroom before I gagged and Dawn headed to the back yard to puke. Shit plastered every surface from the bathroom floor to the top of the toilet bowl, in the shower, across the walls, and up the vanity. Nothing was immune.

After we gathered our composure, the first question to Deanna was, “How in the hell did that happen?” Looking back, we didn’t need the answer to that.

Deanna commenced, “Clyde has been backed up for a few days. Last night, he took two doses of milk of magnesia, after eating a lot of prunes. When I fell asleep, he still had not gone, but I thought I had all the laxatives hidden. I guess I didn’t.”

“Mom, two doses of milk of magnesia does not do that!”

Deanna continued, “No, but 4 plus an enema will! At some point in the night, he took at least two more doses of laxatives. According to him, at 4:30, nothing had kicked in, so he gave himself an enema.”

Dawn, “Why the hell do you have enemas? Never mind, I don’t want to know that, go on.”

“After the enema, it all broke loose. I am not sure what happened, but he pooped from the early morning until 8:30, when he woke me up. Even after he woke me up, he went a couple of more times. I think he is done now.”

“It all broke loose,” did not even begin to explain the catastrophe in that bathroom. I am sure scenes of multiple murders clean up easier than this confined bathroom with layers of crap on it.

As far as we could figure, Clyde tried to make it onto the toilet at first signs of movement. He didn’t quite get settled in for the long haul, and some poop escaped onto the back of the toilet seat. He finished, or thought he finished, stood up to clean the toilet and shot shit onto the wall. At this point, it became a vicious cycle. He turned to clean, more shit storm, in all directions. Toward the toilet, the shower, the vanity, the wall, even as far as three feet away onto the door flew shit. He literally sprayed shit all over that bathroom. And we had to clean it.

One of the more entertaining parts is that Deanna had been cleaning since 8:30. Two hours of cleaning resulted in one waste basket and one diaper pail being mostly cleaned. We were in it deep, figuratively and literally. I stupidly had worn flip-flops. Looking back, I should have learned my lesson to always wear shoes if it involved cleaning and Clyde.

Dawn and I cleaned for a three solid hours. The solid hours were the only solids that day. Dawn alternately gagged, puked, and cleaned. I stuck to mostly gagging and cleaning with moments spent in the fresh air of a rainy April Saturday. We started by scooping with a dust pan and moved on to wiping with paper towels. I am fairly certain an entire tree lost its life in that shit storm. After the surfaces became smears of poo, we started in with the bleach wipes, then progressed to bleach spray.

Everything had been cleaned, but we still smelled it. No doubt it was on our clothes, and my innocent feet, but the smell was too strong for that little of residue. So we sniffed. We sniffed the door, the shower, the sink. Maybe we had run too much water trying to rinse rags in the sink and clogged it? No, the sink did not smell. It was the cover of the hose to his bidet sprayer. Clyde had installed what looked to be a heavy duty sprayer from a kitchen sink to the toilet to use as a bidet. The cover of the hose allowed it to be stretched, much like a slinky. The shit was in the middle of every single coil. No one has lived until they have cleaned their step-father-in-law’s crap ring-by-ring from a bidet hose cover.

Three hours later, we emerged from their house, not wanting to even sit in our own car for fear we had crap on us. That afternoon, we showered, separately for 30 minutes. Then, we dried, did a sniff test, and went back in to clean up again. By the time we arrived at my mother’s, we looked haggard and battle worn. After recounting the story, and watching my brother gag, we heard him utter the words, “You know ServPro cleans up messes like that. It might cost you, but I think it might be worth it to get their local number.”

Those numbers are still programmed in my phone.