Packing Peanuts.

Patterns equal reliability: I adore patterns. I don't do limbo. I prefer to know just where I stand, when I stand there, and, well, to be quite honest, what I'm picking up once I'm done standing there.

We have a pattern. I know where we stop, why we stop, how long we stop there, and when we stop there? What we're doing.

Recently?

There. Is. No. Pattern.

First, I worried about the copious amounts of loggage Pucker Up created.

Now, I'm worried about the lack of logs.

Length, and girth - just so we're all clear.

Her fiber intake remains high. Some of it intended: diet dog food contains quite a bit. Some of it unintended: rolls of toilet paper, wads of used tissue (Fox has a cold), hair bows, rubber bands, fluff, bits of cardboard filched out of the recycling bin....either way? Fiber aplenty to keep things a-truckin' along.

Imagine my surprise to notice I'm no longer staring at her backside to see how much she's pooped, but to see if she did. That Mom Instinct thing kicked in something fierce: no longer am I laughing at tracer elements, or the multi-hued doo she excreted snarfing the brightest colored, worst smelling dog treats on the planet (the shitty thing? do pardon the pun, is that she loves them...does anything for them....like coming when she's called) - those treats, akin to watching a magician pull flag after colored flag after colored flag out of his pocket entertained even the staunchest, most stalwart of dog walkers. Those for whom excrement never crosses into entertainment found the array of vibrant hues amusing.

No more colors. No more volume. Nearly nary a log to scoop of. Scary.

I've sunk to new lows.

Ground level in fact. Not that at this point, I could get much lower.

Now?

I'm searching our Daily Discharge for possible suspects in our Lack Of Movement Issues.

I'm used to finding bits of paper, all sorts of things - but then? Things were really moving along. I wasn't kept in suspense to see if that wad of newspaper would resurface; I'd still be able to read the title pages it went through so fast. I didn't step on legos; I stooped to scooping them off not the living room floor, but the deck, lest they look interesting enough for a second go round. Really, eating our own recycling is bad enough without encouraging additional foraging. Legos apparently tempt the taste buds enough to enjoy them twice.

I can't quite put my finger on why I'm nervous we went from three whopping great droppings back down to one - you'd think I'd be ecstatic! I may very well no longer need to wander round the neighborhood toting open bags of poop, attracting flies and biting bugs of all kinds in a cloud around me...instead, I find myself palpating her tummy.

No blockage, or obvious signs of discomfort; licking me endlessly somehow doesn't convey deep seated agony. Those groans? yeah......more orgasmic, less....ouch don't do that.

Granted, she's begun whining at the end of the bed, convinced she'll no longer make it atop the covers; nope, no clue what that's all about. I'm not sure if she's worried her backside will smart again, as she got stung in the bum by a wasp (ps: they do not appreciate being chased and bitten at) or if her back's bothering her, or there's an overwhelmingly large mass blocking her lower intestinal tract I can't feel or see.....I've watched her eat; nothing really slows her down. Read: she eschewed dog food for a few days, as the Real People Food in the offing far exceeded quality and taste of the hard, circular tasteless things in her bowl.

Fair enough.

I'd most likely tend to agree. Either way, she ate. Always.

Worry became concern when she helped herself to a caramel latte (my caramel latte, very daring of her - she's lucky she still has a head) still no movement.

Not even a whimper at the door suggesting in any way that logs might be rumbling along.

Where is all the food going?

When a Dunkin Donuts coffee doesn't loosen things up (be it either human, or canine) there is something clearly, seriously wrong.

Finding the problem was great news! Finding the source? Baffling.

She. Ate. A. Freaking. Packing. Peanut.

I've no idea where she found one. Our house, rid of packing peanuts for months now, including the ones that fluffed up under the sofa (recall that horrendous purple smoothie spill of 2010? The last ones found their way to the inside of a vacuum pdq), no boxes have arrived using packing peanuts.

Packing peanuts do one hell of a job on the inner workings of a beagle - yes, they too come out just as they went in, most likely scrubbing her intestinal tract so thoroughly I'd be hard pressed to find any residue at all - but it's downright frightening to watch one exit.

Knowing my luck?

This won't be a one-off. I'll be watching her strain her way through a ten minute push for rabbit pebbles separated by long, cheese doodle size packing peanuts until a source reveals itself.

Sigh.

I suppose in a way, I can't complain: I do indeed know what to look for.

I should be thrill. After all: We have a new pattern.

Crap.