Last week, while we were out in the yard, I saw Dylan eat dog poop. 

 

It was a pretty morning, warm and clear, and I was inhaling the sweet, humid air, watching dogs roam and sniff, not really thinking about the day, sipping my cooling coffee.

 

And then Dylan did the most disgusting thing a dog can do.

 

It wasn't his own, in fact I am pretty sure it was Sarah's, a dog who was visiting us while her parents were away, but that's not the point.  He ATE poop.  I saw the first gobble, screamed at him to stop, and he quickly grabbed another mouthful before I could reach him.  Furious and disgusted, I grabbed him and took him inside, breathing shallowly, I covered his face with soap so he could spend all morning trying to lick it off.  I couldn't bring myself to stick a finger in his mouth but I did stick a soapy rag in there.  YUCK! 

 

It took a few days for me to feel good about cuddling him, but I was beginning to melt. 

 

Then, I read this.  Dooce's dog does it too!

 

OK, I know dogs do this, I've had dogs do it before.  (But not Dylan, at least not that I knew about.)  What struck me about Dooce's post is how she completely nailed my feeling about it.  I cannot bring myself to think of him in quite the same way.  I certainly cannot bring myself to kiss him on the mouth (something I normally do daily, and I don't want to hear what you think about that). 

 

And I am finally glad, instead of sad, that Dylan doesn't kiss me.  He never has.  I am glad I don't have to turn down his doggie kisses, or accept them and think about where that tongue has been when I do. 

 

I know in time this memory will receed (though writing about it is not the fastest way to make sure of that).  And I love Dylan as much as ever, in spite of the poop, in spite of his bad doggy behavior this morning.  And I hope/know that Coco will grow into a wonderful clean mouthed dog that Dooce can love as much as she loves Chuck, and as much as I love Daisy, Marley, and of course, Dylan.

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