Poop Happens

We are refinancing our mortgage again. This is a good thing.

Part of the process is to have a property assessor come out to your house and assess the value of your home. We had short notice, and were told they were going to take photos so we frantically cleaned and made things presentable. The assessor arrives and he’s a very well dressed gentleman with an accent I can’t place. When he examines the outside of the back of the house he asks about the possibility of dog droppings and I tell him no, there aren’t any, but that there may be some old, dried up goose droppings.  Upon hearing this little tidbit he daintily picks his way across the lawn on tippy toes so as not to soil his very expensive looking shoes. He goes throughout the house taking photos and making notes and then he’s done and bids me good day. I go about finishing my morning and getting myself ready for work that afternoon and think nothing more of Mr. Assessor Dude.

I get home from work that night to find a turd floating in the master bathroom toilet. I cannot for the life of me remember if I used the bathroom before or after the assessor left that morning and I can’t help but wonder if my turd is floating in the assessors photos.


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