Yesterday I caught a whiff of something distinctive, something disgusting, something poopy. Sad to say, not an unusual smell here. I concluded that someone had pooped or that Georgie had belched. I was busy in the kitchen, so I told myself that it could wait until I was done with cutting up carrots, and that maybe one of the dogs would dispose of the poop before I got there. Georgie, setting his usual good example, has taught Patch and the puppies to eat poop, so I rarely have to scoop up a warm pile any more.
When I got to the living room, who was eating the poop?
Polly, my little angel, my tiny dancer, my delicate, sweet flower of girlhood. Eating poop. Man, was that disillusioning.
So I said to her, "Polly, how will you ever get a date with poop on your breath?" and she flounced off.
I imagined Polly's Prince Charming (or Prince Charmin, as the case may be) taking her to a fine restaurant.
"What will it be tonight, my darling?" PC says to her. "Chateaubriand? Lobster? Foie Gras?"
And Polly says, "Sure, if I they use poop for the foie gras, and serve poop-mousse for dessert, and darling, please make sure the maids leave Andes Poop Mints on our pillows tonight."