"Mini" poop files

So, my long, dramatic (and un-exaggerated) poop stories have been missing for some time. I feel conflicted about this, and secretly hope Kyle will have a blowout in some awkward, public situation so I can write about it here. But Kyle is a good little eliminator, and so, while he continues to destroy everything in his path with every other inch of his movable body parts, just for the sheer fun of it, (like a tornado), his diapers currently exhibit a Martha Stewart-ian quality of neatness, and sometimes after he's eaten something weird, beautiful color scapes as well. The following are just a few past "mini" files that were gross, and annoying to clean up, but not worthy of a single entry between them.

1. Bach. (warning, this particular story is pretty gross)
Joe and I are NOT animal people. We like the idea of animals, and whenever we envision our future, we somehow always see a dog in it, though we can't stand actually having a dog. Joe does in fact, like cats, but as I keep disclaiming, I am missing the feline gene.
Anyway.
There is an exception to every rule. We once had a dog named Bach. We loved him. No, we did not name him ourselves. But oh, we adored him. Even me. He was an enormous German Shepherd whose ears were always floppy like a puppy. He had impeccable manners, and was the sweetest little guy in the world. I have heard that for some people, once they truly love one dog, they can never have another. That is me. We had to eventually find another home for him because Joe and I were working full time, and had no time to play with him, and no yard for him to make up an invisible Lassie to play with. We really did give him away to a family because we loved him, and wanted him to have a good, non-neglected life. But, as with all the men I love in my life, there is a poop story here.
Bach never, EVER went to the bathroom indoors. He was so great that way. EXCEPT, when he was sick. This happened three times. One day, Joe left for work, and Back started whimpering to go outside. Before I could unearth myself from beneath my warm covers to let him out, he stopped whimpering, and I decided he must not have to go, and started to slip back into my warm coma. Before I could fully descend however, a stench filled the room. This is the kind of stench that invades every molecule of your body. It was so bad, (I am not kidding.) my eyes were watering, and I started gagging. I wish I could fully describe the smell, but
there. are. no. words. I know why they say poop is a ripe smell though, because it was the ripest smell I have ever smelled. (6 years later, I can still remember it) Within 2 seconds, I was dying. I had no idea what this smell WAS! I sat up in agony, and threw back the covers. The first sight I registered was Bach, crouched in the furthest corner in utter shame, his paws covering his eyes, tail between his legs. I started to wonder what he could be so asham-
OH.
A thick carpet of brown slime covered the already ugly carpet. It was not liquid, it was not solid, and it was slowly, painfully suffocating me. In eye-watering horror I wondered how to even BEGIN cleaning this up. But, a benevolent Father in Heaven sent divine inspiration. I ran upstairs and grabbed a black trash bag, and, a spatula. Proving how much I loved this dog, I went downstairs, and scooped up all the poop slime and deposited it in the trash bag. Then I coaxed Bach out of his corner and loved him up. Sighing in relief that I would never have to do that again.
Two days later, Joe left for work again, and once again, Bach whimpered, and fell silent. Once again, my throat closed on what can only be described as a suffocating cloud of fecal tear gas. As I employed the same useful cooking utensil to rid my house of Bach's unwanteds, I was slightly less understanding to my adorable dog. That night, I told Joe what had happened for the second time, and for the second time he rolled his eyes and scoffed at me that it "couldn't have been that bad" As much as this irked me, I just smiled at him angelically, and assured him that were this to happen again, he would get to experience the glory for himself.
A few nights later, I was vindicated.
I think Bach loved me back, because this time, he got sick BEFORE Joe left for work. At two in the morning, to be exact. This stench was so bad, it WOKE Joe and I up from a deep sleep. I handed him the spatula I was keeping in my bedside table, and groggily told him in no uncertain terms it was HIS TURN. I confess, a little shamefacedly now, that I huddled under my blankets as Joe spatulaed the carpet, and choked back fatigue laced laughter as I listened to my poor hubby simultaneously gag, and vehemently curse our beloved pooch. But come on people, I had done this twice before. I did thank him later, as we shivered violently in the draft coming from our door that we left open all night in the dead of winter to air out our room. We finally figured out Bach was raiding our trash, and that was messing with his digestive tract, so after we better secured the trash, Bach was once again the perfect dog he had been before. I think this is the perfect example of good/bad Karma. That's why I NEVER scoff at those who tell me of their horrific experiences. Take this as a lesson folks.

2. The door swings both ways
Once, I (in the naivete of a new mother) left Kurt to "air out" after his bath before dressing him.Now, I NEVER let Kyle do this. After diapering and clothing Kurt, all seemed well. A little bit later, I went to his bedroom and opened his door. Then I left an incredibly detailed Nike footprint in the swath of orange poop that coated the entire first foot of the bedroom in a wedge shaped swipe. I think I stood there for a moment or two so that I could allow my brain to start, boot up, dial up to the modem, and finally reach the home page. Apparently, in his velvety peach birthday suit, my son had wandered into the bedroom, and sis his business in front of the mostly closed door. I had shut it when He had wandered out, causing no problems. However, being as it was right behind the door, when I had opened it, all the way, that had spread the joy from the door jam, to the wall. In fact, it appeared as though I hated the color green, and had decided to spray paint the carpet orange.
Ok, shout out to my bro David. As I stood there dumbly, He appeared silently behind me with a giant can of carpet spray. Nodding understandably at me, David motioned silently with his finger in his David way (those who love and know him will know what I mean) for me to hop to the bathroom and clean up. By the time I came back, he was scrubbing that carpet and would not let me do it. I have to say that I might not have enjoyed these files so much, had it not been David and his poop-impervious nature. He truly enjoyed changing poopy diapers.

3. Wall art.
Hasn't this happened to us all? (It will) There was also, of course, the obligatory experience of Kurt coming to me with a brilliantly proud grin, waving his "brownie mix"coated fingers aloft. The investigation of his proud demeanor led me to the kitchen, where Kurt had discovered the most ancient art resource in the history of the earth. His diaper. So detailed and time intensive was his wall art, I could almost make out some semblance of his baby thoughts put to plaster. "Love sweet potatoes mom", it spoke to me, "but I hate corn." Now whenever I see those abstract paintings, and hear an art critic declare that their child could do that, I vocally, wholeheartedly, agree with them.

4. Genetic habits.
I knew I would work this in somewhere because I love my baby sister, and have told this story to all her friends and boyfriends, and now the world wide web.
My son's are my sister's nephews. When they were babies, both Kurt and Cleve would announce the reappearance of their dinners by bringing me some of the contents of their diapers squeezed tightly in their fists. How well I remember, nostalgically, my sister doing the same thing. It just shows me how considerate my family is.

Well, that's all for now. Until Kyle gives up being such a civilized American child and starts acting like a feral child who provides much fodder for poop files, that's what I got. Maybe I'll become a nurse. I hear there is great material involving the infamous "hopper." (Hint, there is one in the Main Street baby changing station at Disneyland, you know the thing that is NOT a drinking fountain or an elevated toilet?)
Ciao for now!