My sister and I were so bored during the summers with nothing to do in the heat of the Arizona desert. School was out, swimming was no longer attractive. Watching soaps in our jammies was pretty much how a great day went. Always preceeded with a healthy dose of The Price is Right while pushing the German Sheppard away. He had a broken tail and was rather pesky, but he had a killer name: Spike.
Sometimes we would get crazy and cook something daring. Something besides nachos with cheese piled to the ceiling. Sometimes I would make blueberry muffins from the box. Once or twice my sister would make giant omelets with everything you could imagine folded into the spongy egg. It always smelled so good, but after two bites I would remember how much the texture of spongy cooked egg made my throat want to close up forever. In order to not offend, I took a break from my 15 egg omelet, hoping I might suddenly like that texture at the next commercial break.
I went back for more with my sister proudly trailing behind to hear about how delicious her masterpiece would be by now. We both stopped dead in our tracks when we saw the plate completely empty. It took us both a few minutes to realize the dog was dry heaving below the kitchen table.
I don't know what went through her mind, but in mine I was racing to remember what was in the omelet and if we needed to call the vet. Then I was thinking about how much I disliked that spongy egg and now it was going to be all over the floor and I didn't know if I could clean it up without tossing my own cookies. But I knew it was my fault for leaving the food on the table for the dog to get, I was secretly hoping my sister would save me from the clean up, even though I should be the one to do it. And then I realize I would never be able to eat eggs again.
As we stood speechless watching the dog finally spew forth the goods, one of us went to get paper towels. Before one sheet could be torn, we heard the sound of lapping up. The dog was happily eating its vomit. You will never know the relief in my heart to see the puker cleaning its own puke. I was so happy to not have to clean it that I wasn't even grossed out. Good dog, Spike. We left him to his (second) brunch and returned to our soaps without even discussing it.
*
I scrub the baby's bile (orange, green, white) from the carpet as often as I did when I was potty training Zane. So when I hear the brewing of a good spit-up I naturally think of another interruption to get down and scrub or another opportunity to change my colorfully drenched clothing.
So when I hear little slurping and the smacking of lips after the baby eats his own spit-up in his mouth I can't even be grossed out about it. Cos it's one less thing I have to clean up. Good boy, Evan.
