My day began when my dog decided he had to vomit, and then did. The vomit was copious and brown in colour. It spread across my couch (which is also my bed), and then dripped down onto the bag that I had packed for work.
I then realized, with growing horror and nausea, that the vomit did not smell like vomit at all. It smelled like poo. Gross, ingested, regurgitated poo. It seems my dog had at some point ingested some of his own feces, and then vomited those feces up, all over my couch/bed.
I looked at my dog with disgust. He looked at me with love, and wagged his tail a little.
I went to work.
I should have known that a day that began with dog diarrhea-vomit was not going to go well, but I tried to be optimistic. I sang off-Broadway show-tunes to myself and greeted the world (which was rainy) with a hopeful, cheery smile.
And then the diarrhea-vomit continued (metaphorically this time). We were short staffed, short on management and support, and our clients were short on understanding. Various crises arose, to be quashed down and then arise again like mythical movie monsters. By three p.m., I had threatened to kill two people.
And if the words, “I want to stab you in the aorta with a butter knife,” don’t convey unconditional compassion and understanding, I don’t know what does.