There’s an old adage: perception is reality. Or to put it another way, while appearances can be deceiving, most people assume they aren’t. I’ve always been a firm believer in the principle. As of this morning, my wife’s become an adherent too.
We recently introduced our puppy to a new dog food, and his digestive system hasn’t yet coped. As a result, the little bugger’s suffered repeated accidents the past few days. We’ve found the evidence on the staircase, in the foyer and, worst of all, in our bed. We can only pray he regains full control of his bowels once he gets used to his improved diet.
In view of the dog’s situation, this doesn’t seem the ideal time to host an overnight houseguest. Nonetheless, we did exactly that, last night. Ed Logan – a friend of mine from college whom I haven’t seen in more than twenty years – came to Atlanta for business, and I insisted he spend the evening at “Hotel de Stern.”
As if dealing with Prometheus’ digestive issues isn’t troubling enough, my wife and I are also battling bug season. Sophia caught a bad cold or flu, and I’m starting to experience some of her symptoms. Even so, I couldn’t let a piddling illness stand in the way of hospitality.
I treated Ed to dinner yesterday. We spent hours reminiscing about the good old days and arrived home to find my wife fast asleep. Usually she’s a light sleeper, but the nighttime medication she’d taken had left her dead to the world. As a result, she neither heard nor felt a thing until daybreak, not even when Prometheus draped himself across her neck and dropped a couple of poop nuggets down her pajama top.
Sophia awoke with her brain so fogged she failed to note the “gifts” carried courtesy of our puppy. Still wearing her PJs, she stumbled downstairs to grab a much needed cup of coffee. She came across Ed eating his breakfast in the kitchen, where I’d left him while attending nature’s call. Ever the polite hostess, she paused beside the table and asked if there was anything she could get him. He’d just begun to thank her for the offer when an unexpected sight disrupted his thoughts.
Up till then, Prometheus’ nuggets had remained lodged above Sophia’s pajama bottoms, trapped beneath her tucked-in shirt. The substantial spheroids somehow slipped below her waistband, however, at the worst possible moment. As she stood before Ed, the unmistakable objects plummeted down her pants’ leg, tumbled onto the floor, and rolled to a stop below my friend’s chair … where they became the subjects of his rapt and undivided attention.
My wife is not incontinent. Even if she was, she’d never crap on the floor. Yet in this case, the reality doesn’t count. Ed saw what he saw, and I doubt anything the two of us said to him convinced him otherwise.