Getting Savvy to poop is like pulling teeth (ugh, such an ugly image). There's no predictability to her function and thus, no easy way to ensure she's done her business and can be let inside among civilized folk. Yesterday I spent an hour following her around, waiting for her to go. Nothing, so she finally came inside and was penned while we had supper.
I took her out again, and she finally pooped. Ah, safe I thought, and brought her in to enjoy her company. We were upstairs, making the bed and playing. Steve was tossing a toy, she was running joyfully wild and we all were enjoying puppy time.
Then I smelled something. "Smell that?" I asked Steve.
"I never smell anything," he said. "You know that."
It smelled like dead fish. I sniffed his clothes (because who knows what chemical he'd worked with that day) and then his breath. Ah, sweetness.
"I don't smell anything," he said again.
My nose never lies. The dog had pooped again, a big present on the white carpet.
"Bad!" I yelled, and brought her to visit it.
She seemed to have no shame, and yet the fact that she went behind a chair speaks of some regret.
God's nose is far more sensitive, and his desire for me not to soil the white carpet far more exquisite. Is it any wonder sometimes He's got me wandering the "yard" when I think I should be let inside?