Me: “What’s that smell?”
Mike: “Smells like swiss cheese.”
Me: “It smells like POOP!”
And so it begins. Pondering the puzzling putrescence that pounded our perceptions.
I hadn’t been in the basement for the past few days. So putting my bike away after sailing was my first exposure to the fetid odor that clung to the lower level of our house.
Mike had been downstairs every day. He had even gotten our bikes out for the ride to the sailing center that very day and made no mention of the rank stench that bitch slapped me as soon as I came in the door.
But what was it?
Mike insisted it was mustiness. After all, the humidifier showed the local humidity was over 60%. We just needed to get some air moving and the smell would clear out quickly.
To me, there is only one stench that strong—putrefying dog poop. But how?
We had no foster pups or guest dogs recently. And it certainly wasn’t Honey. She was house trained within two weeks of coming to live with us and had only been sick enough to poop in the house once in the past four years.
Was someone waiting until we left the basement door open and sneaking dog poop in to a hidden crevice or corner?
I was getting paranoid. It must be due the fetid stink that filled our basement and was now filtering up into the kitchen.
Two long and tortuous days later Mike came upstairs with something in its hand.
“I found what was causing the smell,” he said.
Dangling from his fingers was a plastic bread bag. In the plastic bread bag was a flushable dog poop bag. And in the Flush Doggy bag was… Well, you know.
Over a week earlier we had taken Honey to see Ghostbusters in the park (the movie, not men in jumpsuits with poltergeist traps). After she made one of her special deposits for our collection, I put the flushable bag inside a plastic bag just in case (I’m pleased to say that although they degrade in water, the flushable bags held up even after a week). And then I put the bags into an adorable little pouch on the back of the Doggy Ride trailer.
No one had to carry it. It stayed outside the trailer. And we’d take care of it when we got home.
Except we didn’t.
By the time we arrived home at 11:30 p.m. we got the bike cart emptied out (mostly) and went to bed. Forgetting all about the poopy puppy pouch and its malodorous time bomb.
Four days after disposing of our graveolent gift the smell lingers. But at least I can wash a load of laundry without a gas mask.
On the bright side, I think we’ve discovered a non-lethal weapon whose very presence would cause bad guys to weep before they could do their evil deeds.
Now I just need to come up with a scarier name than the poopy puppy pouch of death.
Your Turn: Please tell me I’m not the only one. Have you ever found dog poop you left behind?