Some days back, as the sun began to set, that familiar feeling of emptiness gripped yours truly, signaling time for supper.
I knew I was in for a treat when I spotted momma heading for the cold box; land of raw burgers, green beans, and yogurt.
Gracious chap that I am, I permitted the Relentlessly Huge to proceed me in exploration of our culinary possibilities.
Ah, happy fortune smiled down on me that fateful day as no sooner had he stuck his remarkably large head into the cooler than he recoiled with what I must say was uncharacteristic vigor.
The strong winds generated by the withdrawal of his gravitational field producing noggin brought with it a stench so horrible, so sickeningly sweet that even my sturdy labrabelly clenched and I felt the start of the old hurka hurka rumbling up from my heretofore clamoring for dinner stomach area.
As I backed away, Mango staggered a few steps before dropping to the ground. The shock of which nearly sent me flying head over tea kettle.
Torn as I was between assisting the big guy and sparing my labralife, I knew that I needed oxygen immediately if I were to avoid succumbing to the toxic fumes that still crawled over the kitchen area even after the door to the cold box had been securely latched.
Thus I made for the outdoors, followed closely by Momma whom, it appears, was equally absorbed in saving herself and leaving Mango to his doom.
Thus ensued the following conversation;
Me: Momma! Something died in the cold box!
Momma: No, it's OK, Master just spilled some milk and it went sour.
Me: I have never smelled milk like that before. Are your certain that some hapless creature didn't find it's way in there and meet its cold and lonely doom while we slumbered?
Momma: Dexter, I am sure. It is just milk.
Me: Well, then, clean it up. I can't possibly eat anything that comes out of there. I can't even go back inside.
Momma: I'm not cleaning it up. I didn't do it. I don't even drink milk.
Me: I don't think this is the time for petty quarels. Besides, you need to save Mango.
Momma: Mango will be fine. But seriously, little dude, Master spilled it, he should clean it up.
Me: Oh, it's going to be like that, is it?
And so the battle ensued. With every open and close of that door making our estate ever more uninhabitable.
Finally, I was able to convince Master to clean it out. I took the somewhat recovered cry baby Momma's dog outdoors with me for some cleansing breaths while the scouring commenced.
But to my horror, even after all the drawers and shelves were removed and cleaned, the smell lingered. If anything, it became worse.
What next? I feared we might have to move out while the EPA cleaned up our estate.
But then, a few days later, Momma says to me.
"Dexter, I have solved the problem. The cold box is no longer stinky and all your noms are safe."
Cautiously I stuck my snooter in the crack of the door. You can bet I was holding my breath.
Momma had added the daily news to the foodables.
Even still, I was not about to be the first to try the noms that had been exposed to the vomit like odor of spoiled milk for many a day.
And so, when the Tupperware of hot dogs came out, I summoned all my self control and suggested that Mango get the first bite.
I even let him have a couple more just to be sure.
When he did not expire or otherwise show signs of toxic overload, I happily received my share of the booty.
There are two lessons to be learned;
- When in doubt, consult the internet.
- Newspaper absorbs annoying refrigerator odors.
Oh, and of course, never ever ever leave the milk bottle on its side.