Poop Poop?

Whe Scooby and I have a morning of errands to run, there is a small window of opportunity to get out the door that will allow enough time to complete everything without melting down in the middle of what is usually the last stop. If I spend the entire morning getting us ready, he gets upset that there’s no play time. So this morning we played downstairs and ate chocolate chip pancakes before I took a shower and blew out my hair just enough to prevent icicles from forming around my neck in the twenty-eight degree weather. Scooby wore what he had on yesterday and wore to bed last night (complete with a crusty something on the shoulder, and I opted for sweatpants, a thermal hoodie and a cat-hair covered fleece that no longer zips around my hips without riding up… thanks, baby.

The state of our appearance was of no concern to me at Target and Bed Bath and Beyond. However, second on the list was to pick up Joe’s rental tux at Men’s Warehouse. Compared to the men in svelte, tailored suits, Scooby and I looked like a pair of hobos. At this point, my half dried hair was less “done” than it was rigged, Scooby was covered in cracker crumbs, and I was donning the oh-so-fashionable toddler backpack slung over my shoulder. Mr. Suave was gracious enough as he fetched the tux and rang us up, but as we stood at the counter, Scooby points at my crotch and asks not once but three times, “Poop poop?”

Scooby has decided that passing gas sounds like its closely related body function and now appointed himself as poop-poop caller-outer. Mind you, I did NOT poop-poop at the counter. I have no idea what he heard or smelled but it wasn’t me. I casually said, “No poop poop. Do you have poop poop?” This seemed to satisfy Scooby who didn’t bring up the topic again. I was all to happy to get out the door!