Ah vacation, I had the afternoon off from work and was going to work on a new kind of fried food at home. So caught up in cooking thoughts was I that I didn't notice my boy on the couch or the issue. Pretty soon I heard the old familiar "Daaad". I see Gunnar stretched out on the love seat with his reading glasses on, engrossed in his reading. While still reading he stretches out his arm and points to the floor. Ya so what, a dark towel on the floor or wait.... Its black diarrhea from the dog in a 3' diameter pile. His response to my WTF" was "oh and there is some more on the stairs and by the downstairs." The stench was over whelming so I still can't figure out how he could nonchalantly be sitting 3 feet from rotten, bloody gastric diarrhea without the dry heaves.
Somehow it seems all my adventures that start in a cooking bliss end up either in diarrhea or vomit. Now who would like some fried chili sticks? Sigh
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