Proof that I can hold two opposing ideas in my mind simultaneously.
Do I like the smell of pee? Do I enjoy picking up pieces of poo or scraping channels of packed poo out of my tennis shoe treads with a toothpick? Does it feel good when a “power chewer” clamps his jaws on the middle of my hand when I’m simply trying to break up a vicious 3 AM fight between two male puppies who both believe they are the Alpha? Does a bear shit in the master bathroom and wipe its ass with Charmin?
When I’m away from home, do I pine for six precious little puppy eyes? Do I adore doggie kisses even when they leave a schmear of shit-smell on my skin? Are MY dogs the cutest fur-babies in the entire known universe? Does a bear shit in the woods?
How does she know? I realize my miniature poodle is more intelligent than most high school students and all rappers, but I still can’t figure it out. Only when I am in the mother of all hurries does my sweet little pookums work up an industrial-sized episode of explosive stool expulsion. On the carpet. Used to be beige. The spot she selected this morning is less than three inches from the kitchen tile where bowel spills would be easy-breezy to clean. But nooo. Unless her fecal fury can cause floor-covering cataclysm, she will save her detonations for the yard.
I made the mistake of gating her in the laundry room once while I had to work. To show her obvious indignation, she first made a substantial doody deposit and then spent the remaining four hours behind bars heinously bouncing up and down in the excrement until her little crap-covered paws had fused the shit to the linoleum with the heat of the manic jumping. I had to scrub the scene of the crime with metal because of the astonishing adhesive properties of her creation. That dog totally discovered a new element. Shitonium. It’s true. She’s going to win the Nobel in science this year.
Now on the other end of the sphincter spectrum, there’s me. Several nights ago, someone apparently sneaked in while I was sleeping and poured a bag of Sakrete up my ass. “Plugged” does not even scratch the surface of my condition. I considered my options and decided that a nuclear warhead would be my safest bet. Let me just say that the results were not pretty. I am absolutely positive that a Mac truck drove out of my lower intestine later that evening. The only good that came of the situation is that I totally reaccepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. Several times.