Dirt

Dirt-Bag

By Nicola Barry

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We were having our leisurely Sunday morning lie-in when the smell first became apparent. We were dozing, after working late, drifting off, waking; dog lying at the end of the bed, snoring gently.

“For God’s sake,” I said, sitting up in shock as an all-pervading stench hit me.

“That’s awful, really bad.”

Minute’s silence, partner grunts, sits up, furious at this rude awakening.

The reek of an abattoir. The bedroom has turned into a slaughterhouse, dead meat, rotten tuna fish, something really evil.

“What on earth did you lot eat last night?” I said. “If it was curry it must have been far too spicy. I s’pose it was followed by the usual fifteen pints of beer?”

Man snarls, really angry now.

“It’s you …” he hissed. “It’s got to be you. That’s never me, never. It is really awful. Barely human.”

I sigh, aware my weekly lie-in is over before it’s even started. I roll over, legs out of bed, step onto thick carpet.

I need to get to the window, quick, need some sweet fresh air. I’m thinking: ‘he really should see a doctor, if things are that bad. What the hell could be wrong with him, chronic gut failure?’

Then, I see the thing, just before I step in it: the largest, brownest pile imaginable, all over the new carpet, hidden away at the end of the bed.

I notice the look on my baby’s face: Coll is cowering, sheepish, embarrassed, knows I’ve seen the floor. He’s ill, he looks ill.

‘Did Daddy upset you, diddums?’

I gather him up in my arms, cradle him, carry him downstairs to the garden. It was only my baby. The smell has been forgiven, forgotten.

Upstairs, there’s an angry shout, followed by a royal flush of expletives.

‘Daddy’s put his foot in it, yes he has. Oh goodie. And a bare foot at that’.

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Nicola Barry lives with a Man and a Dog. One time, she almost stepped in the aforementioned Dog’s shit. True story.