Page 67 of Men or Paws
“He’s in New York reshooting some scenes in a movie,” I said, then felt guilty since I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be confidential. “I’m not sure if that’s public information.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Douglas said. “Rocco usually tells me when he is going out of town. I just didn’t realize New York was this week. I guess it must’ve slipped my mind.”
“No—it was a last-minute thing, actually.” I glanced over at Houdini, who was now squatting and pushing, doing his second piece of important business. “Sorry you have to see this.”
“That’s nothing compared to what I’ve seen at the zoo,” Douglas said. “Remember I told you that some of my elephants ate three to four hundred pounds of food a day?”
“Yes—I remember.”
“Well, knowing that, try guessing their average daily fecal output?”
Food was my passion, but the last thing I wanted to do was talk about what it turned into after someone ate it.
“Go ahead,” Douglas said, noticing my hesitation to answer the question. “Give it your best shot.”
“I have no idea,” I said, wondering how I could gracefully extract myself from the conversation without hurting his feelings. He was a sweet man, but there were some things I preferred not to talk about, especially if it came out of an animal’s orifice.
The guilt of not answering, and him waiting for an answer, made me fidget.
I shrugged, really not wanting to know how much his elephants pooped. “I really wouldn’t know where to begin with an answer.”
“One hundred pounds of feces a day!” Douglas said with delight. “That’s the equivalent of thirty-three cantaloupes dropping out of the elephant’s bunghole!”
Cantaloupe was my favorite fruit up until about ten seconds ago.
I’ll never look at it the same way again.
“Another word I learned from you kids—bunghole,” Douglas added with delight.
I had never used that word in my entire life.
“Horses poop the equivalent of fifteen pineapples a day!” Douglas continued with the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered electricity.
I really needed to change the subject before he eliminated all fruit from my diet.
“Fascinating.” I gestured to the guesthouse. “I really should be—”
“Here’s something I bet you didn’t know,” Douglas said. “Penguins are masters of projectile pooping. Seen it with my own eyes many times. I wonder if I have a video.”
I never thought I would say this, but I really needed Captain Clapton to rescue me from this conversation. I would even promise to not make fun of his spandex.
Douglas must have noticed the grossed-out expression on my face because he said, “Oh, I’m sorry about that. I always forget that most people are not as fascinated with fecal facts as I am. I should probably let you go.”
“No problem.” I smiled. “You enjoy the rest of your day.”
“You do the same!” Douglas said. “I hope to see you at bowling night.”
I had taken a step toward the guesthouse, but then stopped and turned back around. “Bowling night? You mean here?”
Douglas chuckled. “Of course! Rocco is the only one in Rancho Santa Fe with a bowling alley in his house. Maybe the only one in the county, actually. Long story short, we always get together to bowl once a week when he’s here in between movie shoots.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said. “How long have you been doing that?”
“Well, let’s see . . . the first time Rocco invited me was four years ago, just after Lizzy died, God rest her soul. We’ve been doing it ever since.”
Something mysterious tugged at my heartstrings.
Knowing what I’ve learned about Rocco so far, he most likely invited Douglas to bowl with him because he didn’t want the man to be alone, like maybe their get-together was a distraction disguised as bowling to help ease the heartache of losing someone so special.
