Oh. Poop.

What is it, exactly that urges nearly every being that walks through my front door, to poop here? Is it the smell? Is there something...bowel moving about this home? I'd say perhaps, it was simply this place, except it's not: there was a good deal of gratuitous pooping going on out in Oakham too.

I swear. People are no sooner in this door - children and pets in particular - when The Urge Strikes.

I don't quite understand. There is nothing special about my guest baths, or powder rooms, if you'd so prefer. Has all the standard equipment. Plays host however, to guests great and small. I've not any special reading material, no magic views. It doesn't always follow coffee either - though that has been known to create a line - so a good part of my wonders just what it is that brings about this phenomenom.

Take today, for example. I'm dogsitting. Chloe. Only I call her Chlo-ee-o-ee-o. She's a slightly spastic, hyperactive totally adorable yellow lab, with a divit in her nose - we think her brother Clyde bit her. I take her this morning, and she's barely out of the car before it happens. Or rather, shit happens.

On my neighbors lawn. The one who hates me.

Oh sure, we chatted this morning, when she came running over to make sure I saw the dog do the little dancing trot, followed by the rapid hopping, from one back foot to another, while she (her words, not mine) voided her bowels. I came running out, aghast, (not that she pooped, clearly) but that she pooped there. I had the requisite baggie. I cleaned up.

Okay, so I'm a tad germophobic, and double bagged. Either way, I picked up the offending....poop.

But she didn't stop at one. Is she marking her territory? Perhaps. But then, when others, and I mean of the human variety, come over why do they, er, void at my place?

Oh, sure. I ascribe to the Never Take Home What You Can Leave Elsewhere Theory. This takes it a bit too far, if you ask me. Apparnetly, it's just my house too. I don't visit my friends and feel the need to bespoil their powder rooms. Even when served terribly strong coffee. I had a visitor this morning? Befouled the bath. Small children show up for playdates, and cannot do anything it seems prior to checking out the Shittablilty of My Toilet. Perhaps, it's the fluffy toilet paper, that just screams, Wipe You Ass With Me! Or the well thumbed reading material that lies in it's basket, next to markers, bits of paper, and some dinosaur figurines. Whatever it is, I'm surprised the paint is still on the wall.

What scares me though, is that while I've always wanted my house to feel warm, inviting, in a I Ate Too Much Dinner, I'll Cozy Up On The Couch and Loosen My Belt, or Slip Off My Shoes At The Door kind of way, I've never ascribed to have everyone, or anyone really, walk into my home and feel an overwhelming desire to poop.

I took it as a huge negative for a while, but I suppose? In the end? (pardon the pun) What it boils down to is a compliment:

Wow. I'm So At Home Here, I Could Just Shit.

And they do.