Because my beloved grandson, the Goonybird, is made of finer stuff than the common run, just the whisper of an irritant or a single whole wheat cracker will cause his ass to rot off.
In order to spare him his grandmothers fate (FIRSTNATIONS: assless queen of the Flatbutt tribe. Venus Williams I am not) he must be let to roam free, free, free, in order to let the breezes circulate. As he is a boy baby and *ahem* unedited, this means we all spend a great deal of time marvelling at the amazing elasticity of the human foreskin.
Was such a day as this I sing. This morning, actually. He had performed all his sceduled bodily functions so I figured we'd just let him air out for awhile. And promptly forgot.
For a long time.
Well, memory came racing back to me and I went racing out to the front room where the Goonybird was romping on the sofa. All was calm. All was bright. Round yon baby had no visible substances besmearing him...fine...
Then I remembered the dogs.
Then I remembered the dogs.
I looked, and there they were, poised, like buzzards on a bargeload of medical waste, licking and trembling. Gazes fixed, noses almost touching.
Between them, on the rug, lay a turd.
Blessedly intact. Miraculously solid. Incredibly uneaten.
Blessedly intact. Miraculously solid. Incredibly uneaten.
It instantly got a job as first mate on the porcelain yacht. Mr. Goonybird instantly got a diaper.
Now, I haven't stopped until just this moment to ask myself, 'Self? do you think there might have been any more little brown cars on that choo-choo?' And I prefer that to remain unasked; a mystery, like the interdimensional time-space portal in Beaver, Oklahoma, and much of the Catholic religion.
And in case you were wondering, yes; I do own a carpet cleaner. I've damn near wore it out.
