Poop-Eaters Anonymous

Paco stood on all fours, shakily. It was clear to the audience that he was suffering from the dt’s.

Paco cleared his throat and whispered, “My name is Paco, and… and…” He gulped, and a grizzled Schnauzer in the front row murmured, “You can do it, boy” in commiseration. Paco swallowed hard and said, “My name is Paco, and I’m a Poop-Eater.”

The crowd exhaled, then applauded lustily. The Schnauzer gruffly wiped a tear from his eye.

The saga of Paco’s tragic fall to these parts of town was a short and all-too-familiar one. Lured by false promises of self-confidence, wealth, and many yummy treats, the already-prone-to-excess Paco was an easy mark for the sophisticated tricksters who trolled the streets.

Paco had learned his lessons young, and learned them well. When pooping, he knew to follow the lead of his brother Pedro, and carefully deposited his poops on the newspapers. Yet ironically, it was this very same penchant for following directions that led to his downfall.

It was an Alanis Morrissette type of ironic day when the first situation occurred. As always, Paco pooped on the papers. And as always, he examined his poopy afterwards with interest.

Normally, he would have chosen this time to stroll off in search of a treat from Big Mommy, but today… today there was something different about the poop.

He eyed it. It eyed him. It seemed almost to be whispering to him, and in a faint Belgian accent as well. “Paco…Paco… it eez I, ze Poopy… I am so deeleechuz, no? Look at my fine, plump feegure… I am so yummy…”

Mesmerized, Paco drifted closer to the poop. Almost before he realized what he was doing, his mouth gobbled up the poopy. And it was good. But it was only the beginning.

There would be many more relapses before his saga had an ending, and his poopy was put to rest.