Turd Hunt

Lloyd Bridges

I lifted my shoe and checked. No, not there. I quickly checked the other shoe. No, not that one either. There was a definite odor in the air, the odor of poo. Earlier in the morning I had found a tiny, lonely turd, sitting in the middle of the living room. It was Bette's, but I couldn't be too angry. It was raining the evening before and I had hurried her on her walk before she had a chance to pinch one off. Maybe I had missed one when I picked that up this morning. So I got out the flashlight and started searching. I could find nothing. Not in the living room, not in the sun porch, and not among the various nooks and crannies of my office. It was like trying to find a turd in a hay stack, and made even harder because Miss Bette has the ability to squeeze herself into very small spaces. After a while I decided to give up because curiously, the smell had subsided. That was when I heard Mark gagging in the bedroom.

            "Oh god, who the hell crapped in here?" he cried.

Well, nobody did. There was no turd. The bad smell was following Bette around the house.

            "Bette farted. That's what it is, she farted. She's been farting all morning."
            "That's impossible. My little dog doesn't fart. It must be Chandler." Mark countered.
I hate to say it, but I am a connoisseur of my dog's farts, and that was not Chandler's. His have a strong aroma of old shoes with a bit of earthiness. While unpleasant, they are not all that shitty smelling. The farts I was smelling all morning smelled awful, and very, very shitty. So now I have Bette's farts cataloged in my brain, and the next time I will know instantly who did what. I also now know why dogs smell each other's asses. Very distinctive.