Saturday, 29 January 2011

Turdicus Sockus

One of the bits of French literature that is almost universally loved by everyone who studies it, is Rabelais. I hesitate to describe him as 'a bit of French literature' rather than a writer, but he is a legend, even to the extent of having lent his name to an English word.
'Rabelaisian' means

adjective : displaying earthy humour; bawdy:
the conversation was often highly Rabelaisian " (OED)

Rabelais was a Renaissance French writer who soundly satirised the institutions of the time, ergo comedic. When I studied Rabelais I learnt the adjective 'scatological', which was defined for us in French as comedy of the 'bas-ventre' - the lower belly. Toilet humour.

Basically, I'm trying to make it sound alright to have an obsession with poo, which I have done for the last three days, Whisky's poo.

"Around Wednesday lunchtime, officer, a little after midday, I came upon the small canine with a white, Nike trainer sock in its mouth. I grabbed at the aforementioned article of foot clothing, but the dog backed away, whereupon I approached it with a stern face and making deep, reprimanding noises. The dog started to chew the sock rapidly and the overhanging parts quickly disappeared inside its cakehole. Upon prising it open, I could see no trace of the sock."

Ok, So, unless Whisky has some mouthpart equivalent of a magician's sleight of hand, he ate a trainer sock.
It has not yet re-appeared. I have monitored every poo, all of which have seemed entirely normal, but no trace of the sock. I have ascertained that under normal circumstances, food passes through a dog's system in twelve hours, I must therefore assume that much of what has come out one end, has gone in the other since Wednesday.

I also assume that therefore it's still in there somehow, somewhere, hopefully not tangled up in his intestines, necessitating expensive surgery following extreme doggy discomfort, but like I said, stuff IS passing through.

If the turdicus sockus ever appears, it will be greeted with the same amount of respect and honour as a poo bearing the face of some saint or religious leader, although I promise not to photograph it and post it on the blog. And if it happens whilst we're down here in the States, it'll be going in the fire pit.
Quod erat NON demonstrandum.

And yes, I am blogging for the first time ever from the Static, by virtue of the magical capabilities of my very own electrical engineering wizard. As Catweazle used to say, 'electrickery'.
I'm about as gobsmacked with this as I would be if he'd conjured up a giant bunny using only words and glittery powders. And way more than I was when the sock disappeared into Whisky's gullet, and I was pretty damned gobsmacked then.



Sleepy said...

Are you absolutely sure it was a sock?

Schneewittchen said...

Absolutely sure, yes.