I'm back on the TMI Thursday bandwagon! As always, head on over to LiLu's place if you crave more tales of debauchery.
Fair warning: This post is not for the squeamish. I mean it.
Today we're going back to my senior year of college. It was a Spring day much like this one: clear blue skies, warm weather, the muddy scent of thawing ground permeating the air. I lived in a rented house in Burlington with four other girls. Recently one of the girls, S., had gotten a Husky puppy with her boyfriend. The dog was a female that they inexplicably named Curtiss after a male character in a Cheech & Chong movie. S. and her boyfriend broke up shortly after acquiring the puppy but were sharing her custody and care, however Curtiss spent a good deal of her time at our house.
I love dogs, but Curtiss was pretty annoying. She whined incessantly (Huskies don't really bark) and wasn't completely housebroken, and S. treated her like a child and spoke baby-talk to her in a manner that I found to be as grating as nails on a chalkboard. The dog was always up on our furniture and shedding on our clothes, and she wasn't overly friendly to anyone but S.
One day I came home to find that Curtiss had gotten into the trash can in the upstairs bathroom. Three of us had rooms upstairs - S., B., and myself. As is often the case when a group of women live together our monthly hormonal cycles were pretty much synchronized, a fact which became abundantly clear when I stepped onto the landing upstairs and discovered what looked like a crime scene.
Blood...everywhere. Bloody things... everywhere. Smears on the wall, on the carpet, half-eaten tampons. It was horrifying. It looked like Curtiss had not only snacked on the offending materials but had rolled around in them as well. Curtiss herself was cowering in the corner, eying me warily.
Covering my mouth, I fled the scene. By the time I reached the bottom step my other roommates had arrived home from class, and I filled them in on the situation upstairs. After assessing the damage S. asked who still had her period. She and B. had finished theirs several days earlier and we had put the trash out since then, so before too long all eyes were on me.
Now, let it be known that I'm a pretty tidy person; I wrap everything in many layers of TP and sink them to the bottom of the trash can like the disgusting little reminders of fertility that they are. I was flabbergasted when S. and B. suggested that since the garbage been mine, I should clean up the mess.
It wasn't my dog who had unearthed the garbage and ripped it to shreds, mind you! It wasn't my fault in the slightest, yet the jury of my peers had made their decision, and it was final.
I was PISSED. I grumbled and swore and stared daggers at the dog, who kept trying to sneak in and grab more bites as I gathered it up into a Hefty bag. I vowed to get my revenge on my bitch roommates someday.
Turns out, I didn't have to wait long to get some sort of satisfactory revenge.
The next day S. took Curtiss for a walk on the college green. It was another lovely day, and the green was bustling with students walking to class, lying on blankets, and generally enjoying the sunshine after months of dreary winter weather. S. had Curtiss on a leash when Curtiss squatted to poop, but nothing came out. The dog got more and more frustrated and started scooting around in the crouched position, clearly straining to relieve herself.
S. started to get concerned as the minutes ticked away and people started to laugh and point. A dark blush crept onto her cheeks as she followed her panicked dog in her awkward pooping pose, and she finally realized that there seemed to be something blocking Curtiss's rectum. Lifting the dog's tail, she was horrified to see what was undeniably the string of a tampon sticking out of Curtiss's asshole. S. tried to maneuver the dog over to a more private section of the park, but the dog stubbornly refused to relocate and had started whining and nipping at her backside.
It was clear what needed to happen, and there was nothing S. could do but grab the string and pull. Nothing happened. More people started to notice and S. could hear them laughing. She gave another hard tug, to no avail. Finally she sat behind the animal and grasped the dog's rear between her legs and pulled as hard as she could. The dog yelped loudly and laughter erupted behind S. Several hard yanks later, the tampon came flying out along with a huge log of dog shit, leaving S. sitting on the ground holding the world's most disgusting piece of evidence that Karma does exist, and she's a wicked bitch when she wants to be.
Revenge. It is sweet.
The moral of this story: don't mess with The Bev... and put your bathroom garbage in a locked cabinet if you have dogs.