A lot of us either have our own shit-your-pants story or know someone who was brave enough to share their shitty experience with us. Losing control of your bowels and living to tell people about it is a rite of passage into a different kind of adulthood. The kind that transcends any other form of embarrassment you’ve ever experienced, and inevitably leads you to look at life a little bit differently.
My shit-your-pants story features my dog as its leading lady. How does a dog shit their pants without wearing pants you ask? Let me tell you.
My sister, Sabrina, and our friend Islean were driving from Palm Springs to Los Angeles. It’s about a two-hour drive, but we were fortunate enough to catch rush-hour traffic, turning this exciting journey into a 3-hour long chapter straight out of Dante’s Inferno.
We pulled into a Carl’s Jr. drive-thru because Islean can’t stop clogging his arteries for sport. My sister drove up to the window, and as she started to order, Lacey sat up, and for lack of a better explanation, she looked like she was about to puke. She was making that “hey I’m about to throw up in the back of your brand new Jetta” face.
My sister screamed at me to take her out of the car. Call me crazy but I didn’t think throwing my dog out of the car mid-puking session onto a fast food drive-thru was a good idea.
Lacey threw up on a good portion of the back seat of the car. We pulled up to the drive-thru window and collected all the napkins they owned.
I took Lacey out of the car to a small patch of grass to go to the bathroom. When she was done, we walked back over to the car and Lacey hopped into the backseat while my sister was cleaning the rest of the vomit. I sat next to her, and immediately got a whiff of the unmistakable scent of shit. I jumped out and threw Lacey back out of the car. She shot me a brief “fuck you” glance followed by a hint of, “but I understand why this is happening” look.
Sabrina ran around to the side Lacey was on. “I think she shit herself,” I said with zero explanation.
My sister checked under the hood of my dog’s fluffy bottom by lifting up her stub of a tail. In case you need more detail, Lacey doesn’t have junk in the trunk, but she makes up for it with all of the fur back there. And it was covered in poop.
“Do you have any diapers left?” I asked. My sister’s dog Penny had been having her period a few weeks prior. Our dogs have a lot of issues.
She didn’t. We both stared at Lacey and looked around as if the Carl’s Jr. parking lot would have a solution. “Maybe we should just leave her here,” I said.
“We have to clean it,” Bri ignored my suggestion. We ran Lacey to the front of the fast food chain, and I quickly pulled her into the women’s restroom. We did what we could with the napkins, but it was no use. Her ass was getting as clean as Lindsay Lohan got in rehab.
Then, Bri had her million dollar idea that we, no doubt, could’ve won Shark Tank with. She instructed me to get some plastic bags. When I came back with a few, she turned them into a diaper. Lacey was sporting a Carl’s Jr. diaper and honestly, she was cute enough to pull it off.
If there was a way, to sum up 2016 as a whole, this was it. My dog was covered in shit. There weren’t many options. So we created a temporary solution to cover up the problem, and then Donald Trump became president.