The first sign of trouble was the smell. Not the usual, polite dog fart that Gus would blame on the sofa cushions, but a low, sulfurous rumble that made Mark’s eyes water. Gus looked up from his bed with the guilty expression of a creature who had just seen God and disappointed Him.
Gus wagged his tail. He’d already forgotten the crime. But Mark knew the truth: Somewhere in the plumbing code of that apartment building, there was a legend. And every plumber who ever snaked that line would whisper the same question: “Was it pumpkin?”
“No,” Mark whispered. “Don’t you dare.” dog poop clogged toilet
Panic set in. Mark texted his buddy, a plumber, at 2:15 AM: “Help. Toilet clogged. It’s… biological.”
Mark boiled a pot of water. He stood on the toilet seat (for leverage, he told himself) and poured the steaming water into the bowl like a priest performing an exorcism. The first sign of trouble was the smell
“Ah,” the plumber replied. “The high-volume artist. Okay. Don’t flush again. Don’t add soap. Soap makes the poop-snake angry. You need a toilet auger. But since it’s 2 AM, try this: boiling water. Slowly. From waist height. The thermal shock sometimes breaks the… sculpture.”
Mark, now sobering up rapidly, grabbed the plunger. He plunged with the fury of a man fighting for his security deposit. The water level didn’t budge. It simply sat there, dark and judgmental, like a mug of week-old coffee. Gus wagged his tail
From the bedroom, Mark’s wife yelled, “Did you just cheer for the toilet?”