One thing I do miss about Ex3 was his invention and frequent use of the word “shapoops,” which he used for the Bitches' poos, both in verb and noun forms.  My asking them, “Do you have to go potty?” was somehow ingratiating to him, so he would follow-up with, “Who has to go shapoops?”

Picking up shapoops is an endless job—I’ve run miles with a bag of shit in hand—but the primary shapoop pick-up is the backyard.  It’s like a minefield after a long winter and the Bitches play far too hard to let everything melt and dry out. 

Alli has smashed into me many times while on shapoop patrol.  Sometimes she leaves her mark.  Usually, my ego is just glad I didn't fall into the mess.

Alli has smashed into me many times while on shapoop patrol.  Sometimes she leaves her mark.  Usually, my ego is just glad I didn't fall into the mess.

This year, pretending I was Rey scavenging on Jakku, while humming the Star Wars theme helped.  The Bitches were my tiny wookiees

The following story is from the first year Joey joined the family.  She has been miraculously cured of this habit.  Alli, has not.  And I did add it to Urban Dictionary.  

Pushing my way through the back gate has been difficult as of late.  The fluctuating temperatures caused quite a bit of snow to melt off the roof of the garage and the sun has taken care of a few inches on the north side of my yard.  The plus is that I know spring is coming.  The bad part is the damned ice, freezing my gate shut and turning our walks into skating adventures.  But enough about the ice, the important part of this story is the melting. 

I am not afraid to admit that there’s been a little issue with the girls eating poop.  My babies are shit eaters.  Dirty, nasty two girls without a cup, play with a frozen turd like it’s a toy shit eaters.  Joey even tried to smuggle a turdcicle into the house.

It’s not that I expect them to be lady-like or cross their legs when they sit.  I have energetic, athletic dogs because I want them to run, wrestle, and play fetch.  I find humor in the fact that Alli smells her own farts for God’s sake.  But shit eating? 

I consulted our vet about it and he gave us a product called For-Bid.  For those of you who have never had the pleasure of dealing with a crap connoisseur, For-Bid is a powder that is sprinkled over kibble.  It can be used for both dogs and cats.  The key is that it has to be on the food of animal whose poop being consumed.  Since neither of the bitches would cop to as to whose turds they were consuming, I treated both of their meals for several days. 

It worked like a charm.  Where the girls had tasted the flavorful feces, they were now simply sniffing at it and moving along.  I thought the problem was licked.

Sometimes my thinking fails me.

My thinking fails me when I remember that the snow in my yard is melting.  And my thinking fails me, when I remember that, no matter how diligent I am in grabbing a bag, snapping on a rubber glove, and going stool hunting in my back yard, I never get every piece of crap.  The numerous heavy snowfalls left caca cookies hidden about the grounds.  And with the melting, those tasty treats are seeing the light of day.


After deciding that another round of powder was pointless until all the turds are removed, I was became the poop police, keeping close eye and trying to pick up the poos immediately, not an easy feat after dark. 

This afternoon Chef Boy mentioned that he caught them eating the filth again.  “Dirty shit eater pubins,” he said. 

Chef Boy loves the Bitches no matter what.  They love him despite the world's worst TMNT costume.  

Chef Boy loves the Bitches no matter what.  They love him despite the world's worst TMNT costume.  

I could smell it on their breath when they came in the living room.  I felt like the wife of a drinker checking his breath when he hits the door.  Of course, Joey tried to give me kisses, which I declined.  I wanted to take a quick nap before going back to work, so I lay down on the couch.  Alli covered my feet and Joey was lying on my chest.  They really are the best blankets.   I set the alarm on my phone for a 15 minute power nap.

It was the unmistakable lurching gag sound that woke me.  Anyone who has had a dog knows the canine wretch.  I opened my eyes and Joey’s face was a little over a foot from mine.  She started to gag again and right as I asked, “Are you okay?” and started to sit up, she projectile vomited chunks of partially digested shit all over me. 

You read that correctly. 

We’ll call it shuke. 

I should probably add that to Urban Dictionary.

I sprang off the couch, dumping some of the shuke on the carpet and some on the couch, which thankfully had a cover on it.

Still wearing my work uniform, my shirt and tie were covered in a substance that wasn’t really brown and it wasn’t really yellow.  It was an odd hybrid similar to calve shit.  It was heavy and chunk as it clung to my shirt. 

But the smell was undeniable.  Shit.  Good Lord, did it smell like shit. 

I ran to the kitchen and pushed the dirty plates in the sink aside.  I had to start washing the tie before I could take it off.  Both the wider top and the underneath part were marinating in the shuke.  I couldn’t just pull the knot out without getting shuke everywhere and I certainly wasn’t going to loosen it and pull it over my head for fear of getting shuke in my hair. 

When the tie was shuke-free enough to go, the shirt was next.  I leaned over the sink, thinking most of the shuke would run off as I tried to unbutton it, but I just got shuke all over my hands.  And I’ll be damned if the shuke didn’t keep clinging to my shirt.  So I sat on the sink ledge and shimmied out of the shirt.  To my surprise, I only got one drop of shuke on the counter.  Everything else managed to stay in the sink.

But the smell… It was shit on acid.  It hung in the air, on my skin.  Shuke is not a smell for those easily grossed out or who suffer from weak stomachs I thought as I scrubbed shuke out of the area rug. 

I pulled the cover off the couch and grabbed the towel, shirt, and tie, thankful for the laundry in the basement.

Joey, aka Turdpac Shukur, followed me around the house, her head hanging in shame.  She looked so guilty.  I really do think she felt bad for puking on me.  I felt bad for her feeling bad, like a little kid does when he or she messes up something he or she couldn’t control.  I just wish her doggie brain could connect the dots that she felt bad for puking because she ate the turds.  No turds means no puke means momma running around the house like a crazy person.

After all this, I still had almost an hour before I was due back at work.  I figured watching a little TV was a mindless way to pass some time as I picked up a shuke-covered remote…

With feces, um, faces like these... 

With feces, um, faces like these...