Over my objection, Adam and I took Howard to Palm Beach for a two-night visit. I love my pug, but I don't enjoy traveling with him—he barks incessantly at airports, outraged that other people would dare to be there, unless you keep him moving, schlepping his carrier up and down the terminal. (He weighs 21 pounds, so it's a workout.) Moreover, the job falls to me, because Adam has a compulsive need to be among the first people on the plane. Howard will also bark onboard the plane, but not to the same degree, and usually only in response to noisy children, so it's their fault.
We were going to Palm Beach to visit our friends John and Barry, who very recently bought a condo there. They have a teacup Yorkie puppy, Oliver, so they're incredibly dog-friendly—and once he's at the destination, Howard has always been pretty good.
Not long after arriving, we headed out to a cocktail party. There was discussion about where to leave Howard, but we had no concerns about letting him run free. He's never been one to destroy things. "Anyway, you owe us one," joked Adam, reminding them how their late dog, Sparky, pooped inside right after they came to see us in Connecticut.
We returned to find that Howard had behaved as fine as we expected. The next morning, however, when Adam, John, and Barry went to work out, Howard pooped on the beige wall-to-wall carpet in the guest room. As upsetting as the incident was, there was nothing to indicate that this was the start of a nightmare.
I immediately went to get paper towels for the first phase of clean-up. On my way back to the guest room, I found Howard in the living room, about three-quarters through a spate of diarrhea. If you've read this blog much, you know that Howard squat-walks as he defecates; the effect was very Jackson Pollock. "NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!" I wailed, not so much at Howard—it was far too late, and he didn't want to do it—but at the situation. I did what I could with the paper towels then ran back to the kitchen for more. When I turned around this time, Howard was barfing on the living room carpet. "OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD," I moaned. "THIS IS NOT HAPPENING." Realizing he was on the brink of an aftershock barf, I quickly slid the paper towel below his mouth. For a brief moment, before the towel began to absorb the vomit underneath it, I thought I had made it in time.
I considered leaving. Instead, I ran outside and across the lawn, past the pool, yelling "ADAM ADAM ADAM ADAM ADAM!" He was heading toward the beach. When he heard me, he thought someone had died. If only.
We went through three rolls of paper towels and half a bottle of the cleanser that Barry had said we should use if any accidents happened before they came home. (Accident? This was an assault.) They were unbelievably gracious. John suggested we try the Resolve carpet cleaner, which was much more effective, and we begged them to let us call a professional carpet cleaner, but they said it was fine.
That evening, on our way to dinner, they stopped at their mailbox to see if our Happy New Year card had arrived. It featured an illustration of the two of us and Howard on a clean, off-white, apparently unrealistic background. The card was indeed there, and they enjoyed it. Then John pulled another postcard out of the box. We couldn't believe the timing: Fleming's Carpet Cleaning was offering them 15% off.
But it was the front of the postcard that really amazed us:
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