"Oh, no," I said. "Kramer pooped on the floor."
"Where," Phil said.
"By the computer."
"Wow, I could have stepped in it."
I wrapped the poop in tissues--it was fairly fresh--you get all the nitty-gritty details here, folks. Then I took it upstairs because Phil was going to bed and wanted to have family prayer. But I continued on up the second set of stairs.
"Hey, where are you going?"
"To put the poop in the toilet. You think I was going to hold it while you prayed?"
"I didn't know you had it."
"You didn't think I'd leave it there did you?" Honestly, sometimes men can be so dense.
So I dumped and flushed and washed my hands and when I got to the living room Phil was deep in a conversation with Kramer--the Pooper. Maybe he was the Poopee, some grammar Nazi should let me know.
"Kramer, you must not poop in the house. If you have to 'go' while we are gone you must just be a big boy and hold it. Okay?"
Phil is sitting in the chair and Kramer is standing on his hind legs, with his front legs resting on Phil's leg. I swear, Kramer was smiling and nodding and saying, "Yes, yes, I'll do that. I'll hold it like a big dog." But then I can hear Kramer saying to himself, The carpet is as good a place as anywhere. The cats poop in the house. I think I should have equal rights.
But Phil has a believing heart and thinks that Kramer will obey.
I am a realist. Kramer will poop on the floor.
He poops outside if one of us says, "Do you want to go outside?" But, actually he really thinks we say, "Do you want to go outside so you can pounce on bugs and bark at that German Shepard." (That dog, which could eat Kramer in one gulp, by the way, is staying in the house behind us). Please, Powers-that-be, let that dog be a visitor or we will hear, "barkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkbark," all winter. And then he will bark some more, in case that wasn't enough.
And then he will think his outside work is done.
And then he will come in the house and poop on the floor. I just know it.