This is a tale of Botty Bombs, of Following Through – of, not to put too fine a point upon it, Piles of Poo! Just warning you lest you are of a delicate disposition!
My beloved, fifteen year old border collie, Jumble, has, in recent months, become a tad forgetful concerning the difference between grass and, say, bedding, carpeting and kitchen flooring, when it comes to the Dung Depositing skills at which he is an adept, nay bordering on a genius!
He has also become a genius at causing the maximum social embarrassment to his owner (me) via a strategy of Upping the Faecal Ante whenever I have company!
This morning was absolutely typical. I flopped out of my Fartsack at nine of the morning and wandered downstairs, admiring the play of sun upon the walls and the lovely rainbows thrown by various adroitly-placed crystals; but, as I opened the kitchen door, I became aware of a neatly arranged pile of three turds leading – almost like the archetypal three ducks upon a wall – in descending order of size to the back door. Jumble himself was behind his gate, wagging his tail furiously and apparently unaware of his earlier gaffe!
There was nothing for it but to dispose of his joined-up jobbies and then thoroughly wash and disinfect the floor. In order to do this, I had to cart most of the furniture outside and, having dropped his droppings into the black plastic refuse sack, leave that in the upper patio too.
A friend came a-calling (which was lovely) and so I left my mucking-out of what is becomingly increasingly reminiscent of the Augean Stables, and repaired with my pal to the wonders of garden, coffee and chat.
My genius of a hound had by no means finished as yet, however; in fact, he was merely warming up for the main event, as you might say.
As we humans conversed, I became aware of a ripping, snuffling, clonking symphony in the background – and, on turning round, saw that Jumble was busy eviscerating the black plastic bin liner. Detritus was strewn everywhere: Bits of biscuit-wrapping festooned the lawn; cotton buds (God only knows what he wanted with those) lay like miniature Tampons amidst the beautifully-arranged and colourful pots of flowers; his earlier bagged feculence had been turfed out to join the party once more – and he, having found an empty Anchor butter container, had dragged it out and was happily engaged trying to get into, or possibly kill, it.
To be frank, I just let him get on with it, thinking, ‘At least it’s taking his mind off his bowels for a while…’
Boy, was I wrong in that!
The butter having proved to be very thin pickings indeed, and bolstered by whatever disgusting remnants he had already ingested, Jumble came trotting merrily up the garden path and then, as his excruciatingly long-drawn-out finale, proceeded to get into the squat another five times (believe me, I counted) and scatter a largesse of scat within feet of where we were sitting!
Honestly, I could make a fortune putting the bugger on the stage in some kind of grotesque Canine Excretathon. He’d win hands down! Crufts ought seriously to consider adding a dog’s Pooping Power and Faecal Frequency to their list of qualities deserving of rosettes!
He may not be the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer intellectually, but he is a genius when it comes to making an statement in shit and thoroughly humiliating me in front of my friends. Thank Goddess I am not ‘courting’, is all I can say!