An open letter to Sidney

Dear Sidney:

What is it with your poop? Is there anything more rancid?

You know that fall has arrived. The frigid temps have made our beds extra comfy with heavy blankets and comforters. I know how much you love them. Just an hour ago, I was sleeping lusciously sound under mine. That is, until I heard 'the tinkle.'

It was the tinkle of your dog tags. The tinkle of you, our newly mama'ed beagle, upstairs. The tinkle of your dog tags signaling you'd managed to wiggle through the cat hole in the basement door. The tinkle of your dog tags sounding the need to do your business. The tinkle of your dog tags heralding the knowledge that what you were about to do had no business being done in the vicinity of your babies. It was the tinkle of a Golgathan Shit Demon.

Unfortunately, the warmth under the blankets trumped the cold outside. I'm sorry Sidney, it was early! But no warmth could combat that smell, could it? Nothing prys open the eyes more quickly and sharply than your poop. Not the best made espresso, bubbling in the Bialetti. Not the yummiest pancakes, fresh off the griddle. Not even the sound of Robin Meade's laugh! Nope. Dog poop: it got us going.

You surely knew what you were doing, Sid, as you heard Mr. Mart fly into action, running blindly through the dark. He thought he'd discovered the offense in Miss Moira's room. (Sleeping through fresh dog poop does not bode well for upcoming teen years.) Fortunately, most rooms in the house are sans carpet so the cleaning up was pretty easy.

But with the offense cleaned up, how was it that the air still reeked, Sidney? How was it that the air was so completely soiled that I'd swear it was coming from the side of my bed? How was this? That's because the air was soiled around my bed, along with some of the last remaining carpet in the house! Holy shit buckets!!! Holy sins against the olfactory senses!!! Holy that's-one-way-of-getting-rid-of-carpet!!!

I hear you now, Sidney, in your pimped out puppy den in the basement. Don't look at me that way. I'm sure it does suck to be relegated to the basement. But it's not forever, it's temporary. By Christmas, you'll be back on Mac Daddy's bed. And it's not so bad, it's quiet, it's soft, it's safe, it's warm.

I feel so violated, Sidney. So used. So shit upon. WTF?! We love you, we've shared our beds with you, we've been your midwives. And for what? For you to foul our sleeping quarters? For you to shit upon our early morning R.E.M.?

It is now 6:24 in the a.m. and you wonder why I call you Sid Vicious...I'm getting some real coffee.