I woke up yesterday morning to a bedroom floor spotted with blood. As I tried to focus my eyes I noticed that the blood was EVERYWHERE. At first I thought it was our dog, Phoebe, then I saw larger pools of blood and thought Phoebe couldn't have bled that much and suspected someone's nose. I followed the bloody trail out into the hall and saw that it circled around the hall and then led into the family room where it made a lovely figure 8. It had to be the dog because anybody in my house with a bloody nose wouldn't have wandered around in the middle of the night creating psychotic patterns of red on every reachable floor (except for the kitchen of course, that would have cleaned up easily.) without waking me. And near the kitchen floor, laying calmy and no longer bleeding, was the culprit looking guilty as hell. She could have at least rolled over and whined or something instead of looking at me like "why didn't YOU do something?" Evidently she had lost a toenail during the night as evidenced by the large disgusting toenail found on the family room floor. So I spent most of my morning scrubbing rather dispassionately many square feet of light colored carpet. I moved from room to room, I guess to get the worst of it and to give myself variety. Isaac helped by bopping me on the head with his magic wand telling me to scrub faster. (He wanted me to play with him.) At one point in the family room I considered leaving half the red spots - you know, as conversation pieces. I could visualize guests coming over and asking "Well, did you have a bloody murder in your living room? A physical dispute with your husband? Do we need to call child protective services?" Blood spots as ice breakers - it would make for a great party. But I wasn't planning any great parties soon so I kept with the scrubbing and Isaac kept up with his bopping. (He tried the "stop scrubbing now" magic bop as well, always thinking.) It was but a mere 1 and half hours later that I scrubbed the last spot, rubbed my aching arms and sang a small hallelujah. When you wake up to a house full of dog blood it just makes you stop and think "what is God trying to tell me here?" The blood of life is all over my floor and I'm on my hands and knees trying to remove it. Perhaps He is saying "Your life is a mess, you need to clean it up, preferably with an oxygen formula cleaner" or "you should be grateful you're not cleaning up blood on a daily basis" or " you should appreciate people who have cleaned up your blood" or the more obvious " You should clip your dog's toenails once-in-a-while". I'm going with all the above. Phoebe pretty much kept her tail between her legs most of the day and walked with a bit of a "gimp". I was trying to work up some compassion for her and was hoping I would bolster myself about the time the smell of blood cleared the air or my arms stopped aching. Well, it's almost 11pm. So far, no go. Poor dog. There I think that's about all I have for today. Maybe tomorrow she'll get some love. Oh bloody hell, Michelle