You never saw Mona Lisa smile much. One might assume Mona could not flash a toothy grin because she had no teeth, a distinct possibility since tooth brushes back then were used to clean grout but not yet teeth. The fact is: Mona Lisa had a dour look on her face because, according to a growing number of historians, she suffered from chronic constipation. Sadly, not once had she experienced the Perfect Shit.
In the modern era, the person coming closest to dropping the most Perfect Shits may have been perky girl-next-door Sandy Duncan. For years Sandy’s shits were the stuff of legend. Once, while appearing on The Mike Douglas Show, she claimed flower pedals dropped from her ass, creating intricate decorations in the toilet bowl, much in the same manner as Martha Stewart might top off a fancy coffee drink with sprinkles of cinnamon. Unfortunately for Sandy, her claims of perfection were debunked when she forgot to flush the toilet and left a John Candy-sized God-awful-mess while taking a break from the filming of The Cat from Outer Space. This is why you never hear about Sandy Duncan anymore.
You are probably asking yourself: “What exactly is a Perfect Shit?” The definition is elusive, but one that can be arrived at by revisiting a quote from the late Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart. When asked what constituted obscenity, he famously said, “I know it when I see it.” In other words, when it comes to the Perfect Shit, if you have to ask, you’ve never had one. But when you do, you’ll know.
The first attribute of a Perfect Shit lies in a flawless formation. It cannot be too hard, loose, or explosive. It should be pinched at the end, like a fine cigar. It must gently slide its way through the sphincter, not barge its way through like a Sherman Tank. It should be stealth when gliding into the water – never doing a cannonball and splashing your ass with the water you just urinated in. Once in the bowl, the Perfect Shit must prove itself seaworthy by not breaking into little chunks. It should not sink like a rock or float like a canoe. It must have a Specific Gravity of 1.0.
The Perfect Shit should leave one with a warm happy feeling, similar to a religious experience but without the ambiguity. The event should be experienced in private, not in the presence of a toothbrush wielding spouse or curious pet. The Perfect Shit leaves one feeling lighter and smarter, whether it’s standing on the scales or coming up with the right question when watching Jeopardy on TV.
Before you bid “bon voyage” to your Perfect Shit, there is one last test you have to do to make sure it was indeed perfect. A Perfect Shit requires no wiping, but how do you know until you try? Perform a safety check first: if there is no telltale smearing on your tissue, fold it and put it in your pocket. Blow your nose on it later. No one will know.
Except for your dog — he’ll know. That’s because when it comes to Number Two, a dog is a connoisseur of crap, a feces aficionado, and an expert at excrement. He can sniff your ass and know what you had for dinner last night. With 10,000 times the number of scent receptors as a human, a dog is totally into old shit, new shit, deer shit, their shit, other dogs’ shit, it doesn’t-matter-where-it-came-from shit, as long as it’s shit.
Unlike Lassie, my dog Max never saved Timmy from drowning in a well or Grandpa when he flipped over his tractor. She never caught a squirrel or rabbit, although she once found a dead bird. She was our dog and I would never say anything bad about her. But at 13 years old and on her last legs, her bucket list had to be long and the expiration short. That is, until she made up for all her years of non-accomplishment. It was the night she topped Sandy Duncan and achieved immortality by putting down The Most Perfect Shit Ever.
Miracles usually occur amidst inauspicious circumstances. So it was as I walked Max the evening of February 15, 2017. New snow had blanketed the grass and streets, but did not cover the iron sewer grates and manhole covers, as they had retained heat from the storm sewer below. Max made her way to the middle of the street and sniffed a sweating manhole cover. She began walking like John Wayne, circling three times, each time getting closer to the center. Finally satisfied, she hunched over and raised her tail. Out dropped the Most Perfect Shit Ever.
What made it perfect was not just the formation or the way it rotated one and half times before hitting ground zero. It was not even the perfect parabolic route it took to the earth. Rather it was the way it landed – on its end. And it stayed perpendicular, frozen in time and space, in the exact center of the manhole cover, a six inch phallic symbol, tilting not left or right, pointing to the heavens.
I sensed a presence. I heard a voice that said “It is good.” I looked toward where the voice was coming from, and sure enough, it was the sky. And there was a rainbow. And God’s hands were sticking through the clouds, and even though the cuffs on his robe were too short, I got His message. That message was that thy faithful four-legged companions are just as blessed as thy people, except they don’t live as long and get hit by cars more often. And that Max’ bucket list had indeed been fulfilled. As I tried to find a note pad because God was going on and on, I think He said to call the Pope because this was a true miracle, but please don’t just leave it in the middle of the street where someone might step in it. Besides, He added, if you cradle it in a poop bag, it will make the perfect hand-warmer on the way home. And so it did.
Max met her maker exactly one year after her Perfect Shit, on February 15, 2018. Toward the end, the only way she could walk was in a doggie wheelchair. Finally it was time. She was the Most Perfect Dog Ever; and my wife and I cried a lot. Sometimes we still do.
