Let me tell you a story…
You come home with two hours to spare before a big job interview. Just enough time to get your thoughts in order, pick an outfit, and arrive like the composed professional you pretend to be. Naturally, you’re a bit nervous—because if you don’t get a little anxious about job interviews, you might be a robot. 
Let’s continue. So you walk in the door, and your 7-month-old puppy (affectionately known as the Maligator) is thrashing around in her crate like a gremlin on espresso. Something’s off. You get closer… and then you see it.
Poo. Is. Everywhere. 
In the crate. Outside the crate. On the mat. On the dog. Possibly on your soul. It’s a crime scene, and the only culprit is wagging her tail in the middle of it.
Your brain, already buzzing with “Tell me about yourself” prep, short-circuits. You call your husband mid-meltdown, but no time for a full emotional breakdown—triage begins now. 
You grab a pair of “crap towels” (which, for the record, had not previously lived up to their name), some shampoo, a leash, and start the containment protocol.
Dragging the crate across the tile to the back door spreads the disaster zone just slightly—but you’re not taking any chances by unleashing the poop missile indoors. Once at the door, you release the beast into the backyard. She bolts. A blur of fur and feces.
Operation: Outdoor Decon
You tie her to the heaviest object you can find—the iron garden bench—because anything lighter would have been airborne within seconds. Hose? Ready. Water temp? Not scalding. Spirit? Questionable.
You begin hosing down the Maligator and instantly regret every life decision that brought you here. She’s flailing like a possessed squirrel. Water. Mud. Shampoo. More flailing. She’s covered in poo, and now, so are you.
Somewhere in the chaos, she flops in the dirt, adds mud to the mix, and wedges herself under the bench. You drag her out. She’s slippery, angry, and somehow still cute. You clean what you can. Between the toes. Behind the ears. You’re racing the clock.
Then—because of course—she bites your arm in frustration. Not a full chomp, more of a “this is dumb and I hate it” nibble, but enough to leave scratches and a bruise. Great. Now you need a long sleeve shirt for the interview to hide your battle wounds.
You towel her off with every absorbent thing you own, crate her upstairs, and sprint to the shower like a contestant in a game show called “Don’t Smell Like a Kennel.”
The clock? Ruthless. The Mayhem guy from the Allstate commercials? Probably hiding behind your shower curtain.
And yet—somehow—you pull it together. You make it to the interview. You smile. You don’t smell like a dog park. And you crush it. Fingers crossed for the next round.
This was today. This was Maddie. And this was a prime entry in the Hagner History Books.
I do have a photo of the crime scene… but for your sake, please accept this adorable cartoon rendering of our little poo-a-saurus instead.
Moral of the story: Be kind. You never know what kind of chaos someone’s stepping out of before stepping into an interview. Sometimes, it’s traffic. Sometimes, it’s nerves. And sometimes… it’s a literal poop explosion.