Marcie's in the front passenger seat. She's got one dog in her lap. There are three dogs in the back cargo area, two in crates, one free. I've got one dog with me in the backseat. I'm holding a plastic bag up against its butt because it's taking its second crap in the car. The first one I missed and had to wipe up but it wasn't too bad (considering) because it was fairly solid. I tell Johanne, who owns the car, you'll be happy I'm catching this one before it hits the seat, because this one is a mess. Yellow porridge. They're groaning at the smell up front. I tie up the bag, put it on the floor.
The pooper dog, a little Schnauzer Terrier mix, who is covered in shit and piss cuddles up against me and then lies down on my lap. It's trembling.
"How much longer?" I ask up front.
"25 minutes if the traffic's good," Johanne replies.
I'm concerned about what else might come out of him but then I'm saying, "Well how much worse can it get? His bowels must be empty by now".
"There's always puke," Johanne says.
Ten minutes later, the little guy has puked up his morning meal on the backseat. Pea soup. He starts heaving again for a second round. I try to catch it with the plastic bag, get most of it but it still gets all over the bag, inside, outside, down the dog's chin, legs, on my jacket, my pants. And the first puke is roiling on the seat with the remnants from the first shit.
"My husband's going to kill me," Johanne says.
I'd push the dog away from me but then it would be stepping in the waste so I let it come back over to me. The dog, covered in filth, trembling somewhat subsided, lies down on my lap. I breathe through my mouth.
Just seeing that sign scares me...