Fish Oil & Dogs Do Not Mix

I came home from my parents house on Monday night and in the tradition of all trips north, I dumped my bags in the middle of the kitchen floor and then promptly left them there. Now, before I go any further, I should point out that in the past year That Fucking Dog ™ has developed this annoying habit of rooting through the garbage. I can’t leave tissues in the bathroom waste basket because she’ll dig them out and shred them all over the place. I can’t leave anything on the edge of the table because she’ll manage to knock it off and then eat it. Occasionally I’ll let Ben eat in the living room while he’s watching TV but if he turns his back for even a second, she’ll snatch food off his place.

Needless to say, there is a lot of cursing at her and we defend food and garbage like it’s the hope diamond.

But whatever, the other night there was nothing edible in my bags so I wasn’t really worried about it.

I was wrong.

Apparently there were about 10-12 fish oil capsules in a small Ziploc bag. When I got back from work my clothes were striddled (is that even a real word?) across the floor and the room smelled as though a bunch of cod fish had committed suicide. The dog was pacing around the room, stopping every few steps to heave.

“Oh you fucking idiot,” I said.

She hung her head and skirted off to the corner to sit and watch me while I cleaned up her vomit. All three puddles of it.

Then I broke out the bleach. Bleach – which you should know – I haven’t used in almost a year because Amy has finally, OFFICIALLY worn me down with all her nagging. And when I say nagging, I mean lovingly forwarding me emails outlining all sorts of scary scientific facts about how bad bleach is for your asthmatic child AND the environment. It took a while but I’ve adjusted to cleaning with vinegar and water, even if there are moments when I longingly cuddle my jug of bleach. I can’t help it. Bleach smells awesome. It smells clean. Clean turns me on.

The problem is (aside from those last three sentences) I can still smell fish every time I walk through the door. I’ve left the windows open and I’ve washed with bleach at least three times. No luck. The fish oil stench will not be defeated. Only now I’m starting to think it’s all in my head. Sort of like that one time I got so drunk on tequila and puked all over my own bed and the boy I was making out with (shut up, I was only 20). For months every time I went to bed I thought I could smell tequila and then I’d get dry heaves.

Dry heaving yourself to sleep is not sexy.

Eventually I started sleeping on the couch in the living room because I couldn’t stand the “smell” of my own bed. Which was really the height of insanity – although it did get me off the sauce. The problem is, I can’t just avoid my whole apartment and moving because I psychosomatically smell fish oil is not really in the cards for me right now.

I swear to god, TFD can’t die soon enough.