Bless me, for I have sinned.
I cursed Foster Dog (made in your image) as I clipped him to his leash and led him to the cold back yard.
I cursed him as I wiped the fecal matter from my freshly painted wall and my favorite rug. I cursed him as I hosed down the crate his Guardian Angel (Aunt Liz) gave me when I took in one more dog than I ever imagined I could handle.
I cursed him as I washed him with the cold garden hose water, rinsed the poo out of his coat, added water to my drenched soil, prayed the water wouldn't end up in my basement.
I cursed him as I opened the windows and simmered cinnamon and vanilla on the stove to kill the stench. As I cleaned the walls, the floor, the rug, the crate.
But I praised Foster Dog as I saw the problem, right there in the back of his crate. The paper towels one of my dogs undoubtedly stole from the garbage, leaving them for Foster Dog to eat. The paper towels that made it out of Foster Dog, intact. All five of them. All five, surrounding... the pink plastic easter egg he chewed and swallowed when I wasn't looking. Wrapped in a little bundle, like a Christmas cracker waiting to be opened. A Christmas cracker surrounded in poo, blessed by the Easter bunny, and delivered with... well, velocity.
Thank dog. Thank dog. You passed it all right through you. You are ok. I can forgive all of this. You are ok.
And I praised Foster Dog as I saw how pretty you looked after his garden hose bath. The high-test kibble, the exercise, the essential fatty acids, the fish oil supplements... you glistened. You wagged. You came running when you heard me call for the pretty boy. No, Foster Mom. No. Not him. You must mean me. Look at how pretty I am.
If this a little poo on the walls is the biggest problem in your day, Foster Mom, just thank dog. Thank dog for your blessings.