Our dear Fritzie (RB) was a venerable old man in his last year, when he
was 18; and like many geriatric humans, faced certain geriatric
problems. One of these was a case of constipation that was pure evil.

He was off his feed and vomiting so we ran him to the vet (a gem of
humanity, I can hardly call him TED!) After a quick exam and feeling
around Fritzie's gut, his eyes grew huge and he said, "Good God! There's
a turd in there the size of a kielbasa!" Then he brought in the techs
who were vet students and showed them, and sent us home with a bottle of
nasty-smelling liquid and a dropper. Great; another reason for Fritzie
to claw the hell out of us, twice a day. He still put up major fights
over his infusions and insulin, even at his old age.

For four days we gave him that laxative as prescribed, and for four days
the results were fruitless. I called a tech, worried that he may have to
be sent in for an enema. We were told to wait another day, and if
nothing happened we'd bring him in.

The following morning there was still nada. Louie took me to work, came
home and went to lie down. I later got a call.

"Um, dear...?"
"Yeah?"
"The meter reader came. You know the meter's in the basement..."
"And...?"
"Fritzie left us about twenty piles after I went to bed. I took the
electric company guy down there, and it was everywhere."
"I guess he was making a statement about the bill."

Fritzie had gone on a fecal festival in the space of maybe two hours,
and was just so happy to drop his load that he let go everywhere, and
damn the electric guy. When I came home, he had that relaxed, relieved
look of Atlas having dropped the weight of the world from something
other than his shoulders.

The meter man, no doubt, went home and told his wife, "I had a $#!+ty
day at work today!"

Blessed be,
Baha