Today I am writing about poop. Yes, poop. Turds and stuff.
It's not my fault.
An employee and I were talking about our pets. I was pleased that my less than intelligent dog seemed to be learning the rule of not pooping in the house. It's been a struggle, requiring the use of treats as a reward for doing the deed outside.
Anyway, as this conversation progressed, we got into the category of cat poop. I remarked that Sir, my extra-large tomcat,
shits er, poops dog turds. She understood having had a large cat of her own once.
And Herself, Cat, Mistress of All, poops little dry pebbles of poo easily swept up if she chooses other than the litter box. Not that she would. Often. This elicited an "aw" of sympathy for the trouble it must be to pop those dry pellets out.
Then, there is Wee, who in perfect accord with cat mythology, leaves in her litter, perfectly formed little tootsie rolls. Which the dog never, ahem, attempts to eat. (Did I mention my dog is less than intelligent?)
We then look at each other a moment.
We are talking about pet poop.
As though this is an important aspect of our lives.
That we can tell which pet is which by poop.
We need affirmation that we are not alone.
Please.
