The Killer Casserole Caper * August 22, 2007

 
     Attention Folklings,

    It was all Dodger’s fault. Stupid dog.

    Dodger is one of those terrier dogs that give wacky dogs a bad name.  He’s everywhere—all at the same time.  So it can be hard to avoid Dodger the Dog when you’re backing your car up.  As Becky, Adam’s future mother-in-law, discovered as she backed out of her driveway (trying to avoid Dodger) straight into the side of Adam’s car—crushing the right side passenger door.  Adam’s car, which is really our car, went straight to the shop and stayed there for two long, long weeks while all the annoying car repair details got taken care of.

    So, of course, Adam had to drive my truck—my beautiful, new, sparkling Nissan Titan with that perfect, new truck smell.

    Sarah, Adam’s future wife, is worried that Adam doesn’t eat properly.  She’s right.  He doesn’t.  Mostly he just grazes like a wildebeest on Doritos and cheese dip.  It’s made his spine crooked, but she loves him anyway.  So she’s started to encourage Adam to take a daily vitamin, which he did on an empty stomach, which caused him to become sick while driving my pristine new truck, which caused him to throw up—inside the truck.

    Adam cleaned the truck out, neglecting to tell me about the vitamin vomit incident.  The smell ratted him out—also the family.  That was Monday which saw a high of 98% Fahrenheit.

    Tuesday, the high was 103% when you figure in the heat index, and the faint smell of up-chuck and Lysol swirled around my head like the Gulf Stream as I drove my truck to Dairy Queen.  I suggested, strongly, that Adam scrub the carpet again.

    On Wednesday, the up-chuck/Lysol smell got weirdly stronger as the heat threatened to suck the air out of my lungs.  I accused Adam of  being a poor carpet scrubber and a bad son.

    By Thursday,  the smell had magnified itself into the size and shape of a small malignant mushroom cloud of stink.  I called a car detailer and made an appointment, letting Adam know that he would owe me for time and all eternity.  Florida set a temperature record on Thursday.

    On our way to our granddaughter’s swim class Friday afternoon, Sherwood and I drove the truck to the Saint Cloud community pool.  The heat was stifling, and the smell had started to resemble a poorly maintained landfill gone bad.  The five minute ride gave me a headache.

    Jumping from the dump on wheels, I yelled, “What did that kid throw up—his internal organs—infected with Ebola?”

    My husband shook his head observing, “The smell is getting stronger and stronger.  How is that possible?”

    People frowned and pinched their noses as they walked by.

    “People can smell us coming.”

    “And going.  Poor truck.  I’m going to kill Adam.”

    Sherwood stuck his head into the stench filled cab.  “Sherwood, don’t do it. Save yourself,” I said, walking ten feet away for a fresh breath of air—next to the dumpster in the parking lot.  “Let’s just abandon the dump-mobile right here.”

    “Before we do that,” Sherwood said, as he pulled something from under the passenger seat of the truck, “maybe we should get rid of this.”  He turned slowly—a  noxious, oozing explosion of festering germs in a casserole dish in his hands.  “It’s your left over casserole from dinner on Sunday at Carol and Clayton’s.  It was underneath the seat—all week—in the heat.”

    “Wow.  That’s a casserole bomb.”  Flies began to circle—a vulture drifted high overhead.  I took the mess from Sherwood, walked slowly to the dumpster, and tossed it.

    “What do we tell Adam?”  Sherwood asked.

    “Nothing, absolutely nothing.  We take this to our grave,” I paused, considering,  “besides this is all Dodger’s fault.” 

    “Stupid dog,” Sherwood said.

    And that’s the story of the killer casserole and how no matter what the facts are in any circumstance it’s always the dog’s fault.  Always.  It’s one of the best reasons in the world to have a dog.  I’m thinking of getting one, so I can blame it for stuff, and so it can eat the leftover casserole crumbs, of course.

    Stay cool.  Stay fresh.

    Linda (Smell Much?) Zern  

   

        

     



   

     


   





   

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