A Night in The Suburbs

I took Rufus for a walk during the day. He walked, and pooped, and rolled . . . the usual. I came home and read. First, about agoraphobia. Then about original sin. And then I read my controversial political autobiography (not written by me.) Then I smelled something horrible and nauseating. I got a flashlight and looked under the sofa for a dead rat. I looked under the footstool. Then, I decided to watch a show about a man crossing the Sahara desert. Then, I called Mr. M and told him I needed his nose. He has an incredibly super sensitive sniffer, so I told him I needed his opinion on the nefarious odor. I was sitting at the counter when he came home, so that he could sit in my vacated reading seat and smell whatever there was to smell. He sniffed a little, and then asked the obvious-"Was Rufus laying by you while you were smelling this stench?" "Yes", I said, "but I didn't think it possible for such a foul odor to be invisible." Indeed, I had looked earlier for a pile of that unmentionable dog odor-producing element. I half expected to see a brown pile on Rufus' back. I don't know what I was thinking. I only know what I was smelling. Mr. M sniffed Rufus. "Aha! I've discovered the source of the odor." Rufus had rolled in vomit, proving the proverb that "a dog returns to his own vomit." (The vomit wasn't his, though. Just to be clear.) So, then, as Mr. M made a lovely experimental pasta dish, I gave Rufus a bath . . . shower, if you want to know the facts. Now our dog smelled fresh, and we enjoyed a lovely meal. I helped clean as much as I could, and then when it became clear there was only room for one in the kitchen, I went to the dining area to do some exercising while Mr. M scrubbed some pots. Then we watched a movie.