Remember that time we drove with poop in the car?

Bea took a while to get used to our hotel, and I don't blame her. Our room is small and musty and smells like it may have been a smoking room in the past. You can never really get the smell of a smoke out of curtains. It's a similar problem for motel rooms that used to have dead hookers in them. I'm assuming.

The double beds are twins and a half at best, and the decor was clearly chosen by someone who loves both Christmas and 1987. All that and the room is somehow $120 per night - way too much for the Discomfort Inn. But how do we complain? It's one of the few pet friendly hotels in Binghamton and every hotel within a few hours of the hurricane zone is packed. I would have loved to stay in a king bed at the Sheraton, but not as much as I love my dog. And I didn't just write that because Bea is reading this over my shoulder.

Sara is still recovering from her surgery and isn't comfortable unless she sleeps in a forest of pillows, so I was left with the half a twin side of the double. I woke up early despite my luxurious two feet of lumpy bed. Also Bea paced a decent amount overnight, but thankfully most of the sound was muted by the hooker-bloodstain-soaked carpet. I'm assuming.

The great thing about this part of the country (or any part outside of a major city) is the space. The grass behind the hotel is larger than any park in our neighborhood. I'm sure that Bea would enjoy living up here - for the 6 weeks out of the year that the weather is nice.

After a surprisingly decent continental breakfast, we took Bea to a local groomer. It was $22 for a full grooming, much better than our usual $48. Plus the place offers a 10% discount for rescues. What a wonderful way to give back to the community while simultaneously reminding people who buy their dogs that they are selfish assholes.

The groomer gave Bea a red handkerchief - much less wussy than the pink atrocity our groomer usually uses. Even better, the groomer's neighborhood was having a street fair. A Binghamton street fair is very different than a New York City street fair. In New York City, street fairs have funnel cake, hipster t-shirts, and unique jewelry. In Binghamton, a street fair has plus sized paisley blouses and used novels by Robert Ludlum. It was still fun to walk around and watch all the old ladies fawn over Bea and her snazzy handkerchief. It's a wonderful thing to have a 6 year-old dog that still looks like a puppy. Bea has all of the cuteness of a puppy without the hyperactivity. Though this eternal baby-ness is cute in a dog, I imagine it would be creepy in a human.

There was a moment in the car that Bea wasn't quite as cute. You know how humans sometimes fart and it doesn't smell? Yeah, that doesn't happen with dogs. Bea's farts are disgusting, and she ripped one in the car. I think it was on purpose - she loves when I put the windows down and I hadn't yet - but believe me, the windows went down QUICKLY. If you're ever stuck with a driver that refuses to lower the windows, fart. It's a solid strategy.

After we got the smell out of our noses enough to enjoy a delicious lunch of spiedies (if you are ever in Binghamton, oh my god, get a spiedie), we went to a pretty rural park to let Bea roam off leash. It was a rare experience for a city dog, and it was an incredibly pleasant day. That all changed when, as they say, shit happened.

We had no idea what was coming.


Maybe it was the long ride to an unfamiliar place. More likely it was the gas station hot dog. Whatever the reason, Bea created something orange, liquid, and unholy. I'm guessing most people would have left it there to fertilize the park. Being the city dog owners that we are, we scooped the poop, tied up the bag, and looked for a garbage can. In a park full of signs cautioning against litter, they might want to add a freaking garbage can.

It would have been okay to just leave the poop - but once you bag it, you can no longer blame it on a wild animal. The park had no garbage cans, and neither did the next 5 miles of road. 5 miles. We drove for 10 minutes with the windows down until we finally found a dumpster. It was so bad that we were wishing for the bygone days of Bea's smelly car fart. At first we tried to hold the poop bag out the open window but fearing the thin plastic not withstand the stretch of 50mph, we brought the bag back in - and even considered a strangers mailbox. Hey, in a hurricane, there are casualties.

Sara and I have both said we can still smell traces of the foul stench in the car. It's probably just sense memory because of just how awful it was. Next time you need to cover up the scent of a dead hooker in your hotel room, I've got a recommendation.