I am a “dog person” and it seems I am becoming more so all the time.

 In our daily smellventures, Dildog, my toy St. Bernard who refuses to carry even the smallest brandy keg, takes the lead and I mosey along beside and behind — providing security and pickup services. 

During these outings to the Doggie Park and beyond, I spend a lot of time cogitating on important matters like how I can become Vice President of a successfully seceded Texamerica, but when that gets too esoterically problematical, I find myself considering Dildog’s actions, and I try to plumb the depths of canine metaphysics. I’ll bet ya’ll didn’t think I could think so intelligentrified, didja?

I came to suspect that to Dildog, finding the perfect place to poop is like the old elephants graveyard in a black and white Tarzan movie. It is the ultimate destination.  And once found, it must be returned to by following the Yellow Smell Road. I’m not sure why this is true, but it seems to be.

I made a mistake of mentioning this to a guy in a wizard robe who was trying to pick me up at a pre-Halloween Goth party where I was dressed as Texas Goth in a black cowboy hat, black mini, black pantyhose with emblems of cow skulls, and black boots. Oh, and a scoop-neck black t-shirt with Kinky Friedman’s picture on it, which is about as kinky Goth as I want to get.

The guy said a lot of things, but one of them was that his friend was an actual witch who had a magic potion that’d turn you into an animal. I didn’t believe him, but he told me he’d taken it and turned into an animal, and that I believed.

So, we’ll skip over the part where I went to his apartment and showed him some of my rodeo tricks, and get to the part where I got the potion from his friend. I took it home and drank it, and it turned me into a female version (I don’t like the word, bitch) of my dog Dildog,

And that’s how I went on the ultimate of dog quests, "Finding The Perfect Place To Poop."  I wish I knew why it takes blogs so long to get the point, don’t you?

 As a humane human humanist, I've always wondered "Why?" which is not a dog question. The Canine Question is "Where?"  And the answer to “where” can only be answered by the song “Follow the Yellow Smell Road” so I did.

I was shocked to find that my nose was the ultimate Time Machine.

You can have your Hubble Telescope and infrared spectrometers, or your archeological digs, fossils,  carbon dating, and other big words I found in Wikipedia, but don’t understand.  I’ll take my poochie nose any old day.

Just yesterday morning, while on my search for the PPTP (Perfect Place To Poop), I found that Wooly Mammoths once roamed across our Doggie Park on their way to distinction.

 I discovered that just last week, Tiara The Pulchritudinous Poodle was getting on with a Chihuahua named Vincente behind Torquemada’s Taco restaurant.  I learned the Westie Street Gang still has old members frequenting bars like Rudy's and the smell of the seven hits Kevin Kennedy made in the 60s still lingers.

I learned there was once a chorine named Sally, who liked robbing sailors in alleys. And I learned that the original Americans who inhabited Manhattan Island really got a good deal.

I got so excited by all this historical information in the human part of my brain that it totally drove out the location of the perfect pooping place. I know I found it. I just don't remember where it is. But my nose knows all, and I'll find it again when I take my next trot through history.

I’ll find it.  I will.  And it’ll be perfectly perfect.

I really mean it.