My father raced with a roll of paper towels to where Champ had been, and said, “Where? Where is it?”
All of three drops were dripping down the table leg. “There,” my mother said, pointing a shaky finger at the wetness. “There!”
Dad wiped it up, then checked the carpet and said, “It was barely a drop.”
“Exactly!” my mother said with her hands on her hips. “Which is why I’ve never been able to find anything. That dog stays outside from now on.
Do you hear me? He is no longer allowed in this house!”
“How about the garage?” I asked. “Can he sleep in there?” “And have him tag everything that’s out there? No!”
Mike and Matt were grinning at each other. “Mystery Pisser! That could be the name for our band!” “Yeah! Cool!”
“Band?” my mother asked. “Wait a minute, what band?” But they were already flying down to their room, laughing about the possibilities for a logo.
My father and I spent the rest of the day sniffing out and destroying criminal evidence.
My dad used a spray bottle of ammonia; I followed up with Lysol.
We did try to recruit my brothers, but they wound up getting into a spray-bottle fight,
which got them locked in their room, which, of course, was fine with them.
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