Three times.

That is the number of times I got out of bed last night looking for poop.

A miasma of fetid air so overwhelmed my senses that even in my deepest sleep that I was awakened as if struck not once, but thrice. I got up and searched every horizontal surface in the house, 100% sure one of the dogs HAD to have let go with one of those dangerous “I ate all those dead things, mom” midnight explosions known and rarely ever spoken of by farm dog owners.

And yet no poop was to be found. The smell remained—Foul, insinuating to the very base of one’s olfactory system and somehow lurking wherever I turned my head, I could not decipher its source. It came and went but when it returned each time, it’s intensity was not to be ignored.

Finally at about 5am, I found its source: An approximate 9-pound Black and Tan log under my own blankets…aka Frank the Dachshund.

I don’t know what he ate last night or why his system is doing what it is to those molecules but I do surely wish it wasn’t cold outside so I could deposit this fountain of malodorous effluvium out of doors until it passes. 😑

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