“Mommy, I clean up Rosy poo!”

I opened an eye and observed my younger daughter, standing about an inch from my face, as excited as Christmas morning.

“Let me see your hands,” I said, sitting up in bed. Instantly awake.

“All clean! I use a baggy! I put it in the recycling!”

I wanted to be mad, but instead, my heart grew three sizes. Sophie just wants to help. She likes to pat down the coffee grounds when Ray’s making espresso, and put the wet laundry in the dryer (all supervised closely).

But lately she’s been branching out in scary ways.

It’s hard to blame her for the poo thing. Rosy, our 14-year-old springer spaniel/retriever mix, is now pooping regularly on the kitchen floor. Peeing, too. She also falls constantly. She’s old and lumpy and arthritic and rickety, but damnit, she’s still happy. She’s not in pain (thanks to painkillers) and we haven’t had any bouts of the runs (thanks to the $3 a can vet-approved food I feed her twice a day) but with the weather still well above 100 degrees, I don’t have any place to put her that makes an appropriate toilet.

My friend Robrt dressed his old cat in diapers for years. (True story — when Annabelle was born, he pulled out the leftovers and generously offered them up.) But that isn’t going to work with Rosy.

I don’t know what I’m going to do, but Sophie might have pushed me a step closer toward a decision.

I keep waiting for fate to intervene, but that might not happen. Earlier this week I read that the world’s oldest dog just died — at age 21.

I love Rosy, but I don’t think I can clean poo and pee off the kitchen floor for another 7 years. Even Sophie won’t want to do that.