Twosies

If you are in the Tampa Bay area, you’re going to want to avoid the Honeymoon Island dog beach for a few days. You know, until the salt water washes away the massive piles of smeared, runny poop that Bryson used to christen the sand. My sister in law and her dog, Duke, are staying with us this weekend. And Bryson has lost his flipping mind. He is so overwhelmingly excited every second and cannot turn off the switch in his head that tells him, “Find Duke! Jump on Duke! Lick Duke’s butthole!” Thankfully, Duke is so patient and relaxed with the hyper puppy, and the boys have been playing together without any (major) incidents for the past two days.

But then we took them to the dog beach. And  a day and a half of intenese playtime/make-out sessions combined with gulping down gallons of poop-infested salt water resulted in some serious diarrhea. On the beach. With lots of people watching, wondering why our dog’s poop looked like rotten mashed avocados. It’s because he’s so stinking happy, people, so just back off. 

Clayton and I are already bracing ourselves for the week-long pouty face that awaits us when Duke leaves, but it will be nice when Bryson’s brain finally relaxes and remembers that there are two other people living in this house who would like the chance to cuddle with their puppy again. It’s those same strange people at the beach who kept running for more plastic bags when you were releasing your bowels into the Gulf of Mexico. The ones who had to scrape your smelly number two off of sand and grass and seaweed. When you get a second, I bet they’d love a nice butthole lick.