Saturday night, both Poochie and I were overcome with "Sweet Jeeezus, what is that smell?"
It was Foxie Doxie. He put his head down and looked away, all, "Dude, I am just over here minding my own bidness. I don't know nothing 'bout no stank-ass smell."
I drowned him in Johnson & Johnson's baby shampoo and we called it good. Well, Poochie and I called it good, and my poor little dog called it cruel and unusual punishment.
We recounted the story to Alice and Jake. When asked what the stench smelled like, Poochie quickly answered, "Death!" And we all laughed.
The next day, we let Foxie Doxie outside, and Poochie watched him run directly over to a spot in the yard. The sassy canine took a deep whiff and the proceeded to roll with wild abandon.
Poochie checked it out and returned to the house with a grim face.
"Do you have a shovel? It's a decomposed squirrel. And maggots."
I started waving my hands in front of my face. I believe this would be called "Having the vapors." And from the house, I watched my brave and darling brother dig up the remains and the parasites.
I realized that having to clean up that mess by myself would have sent me over the edge. But God / Buddha / Oprah provides. Poochie ceremoniously dumped the carcass and the maggots ... over the fence into the yard of the repossessed house of the pothead next door. And all was well.