What did you think I was talking about?

I don't know about you people, but I sure am glad last week's hullabaloo is over with. Seemed like one endless torture session, like having Mr. Blonde shove bamboo under my fingernails with The Carpenters playing in the background. Here's where it all started, Sunday evening, just as I was about to polish off a bottle of pinot and a leftover log of herbed chevre. Feel free to gloat about your lazy garbage disposal, your mountain of dirty laundry:

Is that poop? I believe I said aloud. But I already knew the answer. Bits were strewn across the floor of the den at intervals, tiny increments of excrement that temporarily defied explanation. I grabbed the L.L. Bean crank-powered flashlight (thanks, Santa!) and shifted into CSI mode (not Vegas, or even Miami, but perhaps more akin to Omaha or Pacoima): Is it human?

I'll cut to the chase: turns out our intrepid black Lab, Buggledog, trotted through her own backyard freshie and paraded the offending paw through the den, the kitchen, living room and back 'round to the den - a crap lap, if you will. Depositing shit bits o'er the hills and dales of carpet, prefinished bamboo, throw rug, oak floor and back to carpet again.

After tender-lovingly ushering her out to the backyard to await sentencing, I crisscrossed the crime scene with my bottle of Nature's Miracle and an empty vial to collect samples for further analysis back at my blue-lit, slightly smoky lab. Buggledad quarantined the carpeted areas with the always-handy baby safety gates. The site was secured, credits rolled, wine once again flowed.

CSI: Buggletown will continue. . .