By the end of the week, the dog was named Champ. By the end of the next week, he’d made it from the backyard into the kitchen area.
And not too long after that, he was all moved in. It seemed nobody wanted a full-grown dog with a happy bark.
Nobody but four-fifths of the Baker family, anyway. Then my mother started noticing an odor.
A mysterious odor of indeterminate origin. We all admitted we smelled it, too,
but where my mother was convinced it was Eau de Champ, we disagreed.
She had us bathing him so often that it couldn’t possibly be him. We each sniffed him out pretty good and he smelled perfectly rosy.
My personal suspicion was that Matt and Mike were the ones not bathing enough, but I didn’t want to get close enough to sniff them.
And since our camp was divided on just who the culprit or culprits were, the odor was dubbed the Mystery Smell.
Whole dinnertime discussions revolved around the Mystery Smell, which my brothers found amusing and my mother did not.
Then one day my mother cracked the case. And she might have cracked Champ’s skull as well if my dad hadn’t come to the rescue and shooed him outside.
Mom was fuming. “I told you it was him. The Mystery Smell comes from the Mystery Pisser!
Did you see that? Did you see that? He just squirted on the end table!
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