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Last night Mr Fusspot woke up and indicated that he wanted to leave the bedroom. He's not allowed to jump off the bed anymore so I heaved him down and then followed him out the door, to see whether he needed to go out (which would have meant a hasty flinging on of coat, boots &c. over pajamas) or whether he just wanted a drink. He just wanted a drink, so he went into the kitchen, but instead of heading back towards the bedroom, he took an alternate route around the coffeetable. This was unusual, so I came up behind him to see what was up. He stopped ... right in front of a small poop that he must have squeezed out yesterday in a moment of great need and which I did not even notice (or even smell) until he himself showed me where it was.

Mr Fusspot is a dog of honour.

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