Blame the Dog
Our dog weighs six pounds. Her name is Sweet. I tell people right off the bat, “That’s deceptive.”
Sweet likes to hibernate in winter. Unfortunately her bowels don’t. But I give her kudos for thinking she can hold it until the thaw.
We have this word we use to convey to her that she needs to make the effort to relieve herself someplace but in the house. We say, “Outside.”
Well, "outside" our back door is a concrete stoop about ten inches wide which steps down onto an old plywood floored sun porch. It's nothing fancy.
I can’t count the number of times Sweet has pooped directly on the stoop. Which is always great to face first thing in the morning. Maybe she thinks it makes cleanup more accessible. Maybe she thinks it’s convenient for me. My mistake lies in assuming that “outside” was in the wild—in nature naturally where other “animals” do it. To her outside is just through that door. I guess there’s a failure on my part. By definition, technically, it’s “outside.”
When she reaches the endgame of denial and we haven’t made a mental note that it’s been days since her last bowel movement, she usually just blows up. One segment of that “gift” is usually easily identifiable as dog droppings but scattered in the vicinity are other substances that require further forensic analysis.
On one such occasion, my husband became the self-appointed head of "CSI-Delchester Road." He was driven to specifically identify the substance on the floor even though circumstantial evidence pointed to a canine suspect. As much as these crime scenes look like someone died, my technique is to get my cleaner and some paper towels and not question the origin. I guess that’s naive. He had to smell it.
When a person has an especially disgusting sensory experience, it’s usually effective to use a powerful word to describe it. George used that word.
Now he just blames the dog.