Table Scraps

As usual, I climbed in bed around ten or so on Saturday night. And as usual, Scout jumped up on the bed to hang out for a short while before retiring to her bedroom. Also, Chandler took his place on his bed under the window. Five minutes into our evening a bit of dog fart wafted by Mark and he started yelling for Chandler to get out of the bedroom. He refused. In fact Chandler barely moved an eyelid to acknowledge that somebody was speaking to him. A minute later the room smelled like a tire fire. Chandler was in full fart mode. I turned the ceiling fan up to its highest setting. This only moved the noxious fumes to all corners of the room, and sent Mark into a screaming tizzy. Still, Chandler wouldn't move out of the room. After a bit the smell subsided, or maybe we just got used to it, and then he blasted another one. Now it was a tire fire aroma on top of that smell you get when you drive down to Northeast Indiana. Not very nice. So I got the box fan and aimed it into the bedroom. This stirred the smells out of the corners of the room and along with the ceiling fan mixed it around nicely. Mark whined and cried for me to get the dog out of the room. That's when I asked Mark if earlier, when he was making a large bowl of chicken salad, did he give any of the chicken scraps to Chandler?