Pernicious Poop

Something inside has died. To be more specific, according to Dave, something inside the entryway closet smelled like it had died. He had been trying to solve this aromatic enigma on his own for the past several days and finally decided to resort to the chief sniffer of the family—me. My superior olfactory faculties are renowned in our home (although my abilities may soon be eclipsed by Vaughn's genetically refined senses). After a quick perusal with my proboscis, I quickly narrowed the odor down to the area where the dog’s walking paraphernalia is kept, leash, treat bag, poop scoops…Poop scoops…hmmm. I was trying to recall the last time I had actually taken the dog for an official walk and was quickly ruling this out, but nonetheless, thought to rule out all the possibilities…I pulled out the treat bag, which is where I keep the necessary waste removing instruments. I remembered that I had run out of my handy dandy pooper scooper bags that literally scoop the poop up into the attached bag, fold over into a little baggy and then you can, theoretically, shut the bag by just pushing down on the cardboard handle, never having to touch the warm squishy coprolite. I say theoretically because half the time they do not entirely shut, so you have to walk around whiffing the fragrant feculence until you can find a final resting place for it. However…I had run out of my handy little poop scoopers and had to resort to the good old Glad bag. I usually use a sandwich bag for the poop and neatly double wrap it in a double strength freezer bag for the actual scoop. This then enables me to stuff it into the treat bag until we reach the nearest dumpsite, which brings us to how the closet started smelling to such a degree that it was disturbing even Dave. Triple wrapped and forgotten, the offending canine byproduct had been sitting in the treat bag in the closet for well over a week, permeating everything within an arm’s length radius.

Dave: "No wonder her poots are so powerful if her poop can do that.”

I told Dave we needed to harness this singular power, and when we're ready to paint the house, we'll just feed her an unusual diet and let her methane byproduct peel the paint, just hold her hind end up to the sides of the house and let 'er loose.

PS: Why did it take Dave to recognize the closet smelled? Because I have become so accustomed to the tang stemming from the H. feet in this family (yes, Vaughn inherited this from his dad), any odd odors emanating from the closet I chalk up to fetid footwear. Evidently, Dave can differentiate the difference.