Lisa's dog poo horror story:
Had to lock Fudge in the bathroom for three hours this afternoon so that I could attend Lauren's hockey matches. She's too small to leave safely in the garden while we're out, and she can escape from the scullery no matter how much of a baricade we set up (think Mr Bean in the projection room in Mr Bean's Holiday). Not wanting to return to wee-damaged floor boards, the bathroom seemed the only option.
Poo. And poo smears. And poo prints. And a puddle. And bits of dog food.
On the newspaper, on the floor, in the bath, on the windowsill, under the door.
Briefly considered setting fire to the bathoom.
Peter's competing dog poo horror story:
While I was taking the girls to school this morning, Peter found a dog poo actually in our bed. I returned to find him, slightly hysterically stuffing sheets and pyjamas and socks into the washing machine and looking for the 'boil' programme. Seems last night he somehow managed to get a poo on his shoe, and from there to his sock, and from there into the bed, all without noticing. All credit to his domestic astuteness this morning for noticing the bed smelt 'a bit off'.
Peter claims his story wins.
On another note, I had such a wonderful afternoon watching Lauren's hockey tournament. Her first hockey matches ever. I have become a Mom Yelling From The Sidelines. I love it.
Lauren is such an incredibly enthusiastic person. Her sheer oomph just amazes me.