Counting myself lucky, I got to my feet and looked around. Across the yard, I saw a small farmhouse, its windows dark. Fighting the urge to puke, I pulled in my chute, rolling it as I went. Finally, gathering the stringers, I smelled the repulsive stench, pungent and intestinal—unmistakably—of s**t. I realized I’d been dragged headlong through a large, yellow, wet pile of s**t.
I’d laughed reflexively, thinking that was hilarious. Rich had glared at me and said, “Given my choices, I prefer to assume it came from a dog.” He then continued.
Stretching mid-thigh to my boots, a thick, oily, adhesive yellow paste ran the length of my right leg. I quickly tried to scrape off the evil-smelling lacquer, cursing the dog and the beleaguered French people for not cleaning the s**t up around there.
