It was 2 a.m., and Mark was six beers deep into a nostalgic Call of Duty session. The champion of the night was his Golden Retriever, Gus, who had been sneaking bites of a rogue pumpkin pie off the counter earlier that evening.
Not a clog from a toy or a “flushable” wipe. A dog poop clog. dog poop clogged toilet
“No,” Mark whispered. “Don’t you dare.” It was 2 a
The first sign of trouble was the smell. Not the usual, polite dog fart that Gus would blame on the sofa cushions, but a low, sulfurous rumble that made Mark’s eyes water. Gus looked up from his bed with the guilty expression of a creature who had just seen God and disappointed Him. It was 2 a.m.