36 hours prior to the diarrhea disaster, I got an email. At first glance, I thought it was simply a confirmation of my shipment. Upon opening the message, I discover the item I ordered has been discontinued. What product would I like to replace it with?
24 hours before the blow-out incident I’m scraping the barrel, using nearly the last of the food.
The box arrives, almost too big to shuffle across the front porch and into the house. I manage to dump the contents into the container without spilling too much. He scrambled to collect a few pieces that escaped.
Dinner was the first "go" at the new food. I managed to pull together enough to mix a bit of the old in with the new.
The gas started about fifteen minutes later. It’s now 12 hours to the blast. I had to open a window, turn the fan on number 3, and fire up the essential oil diffuser with a powerful peppermint wafting from the top. I could still taste the underlying fumes.
That was an up and down night. The first let out I couldn’t see the results. Barely made out the skunk waddling in the neighbor’s yard, it’s white back fluffy and glistening. It scrambled away when I shut the front door. I noticed it again, at the next house, when I let him out the second time. So much whining and pacing around the bedroom made me so regret the food swap.
My hair felt singed in the morning. We walked the neighborhood early. I couldn’t stand the reek any longer. The farts shot out with stuttering frequency. I was afraid it would wake the multitude of dogs in the area.
A large yellow house sits on the corner. The yard is trim, a “bee safe” sign sits atop the wild flower beds, bird feeders filled hourly, I suspect.
Ty, head down, bent over in a perfect arc, begins to spew a vat of gas. A little liquid escapes, then light brown, matching the new food, careens out from behind. He even gives out a big yelp in accompaniment. Quite a bit of the gore has leaked across the sidewalk, I notice.
I glance up, at the porch, to see two white blobs turn towards the sound. The woman stands, fully facing the perpetrator, mouth gaping. Her companion also gets up, puts his coffee cup on the ledge, and gestures. I’m not sure what he’s implying but it isn’t good. The Q-Tips must have gotten up early to enjoy their morning coffee and donut holes on the porch swing.
“I’ll come back later to hose down your yard,” I bellow.
I’m attempting a cantor now, with streaming dog in tow. His butt continues gasping. A man, walking towards us with his little black spike-haired mutt on an extenda lead, gives me a little wave. My dog is now dragging his ass on the last bit of serene green space.
It takes a second to register, the guy’s barefoot.
There’s no dignity in dog walking.