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Own a slew of critters long enough and one will find oneself an (unwilling) aficionado of all things disgusting deposited on one’s floor. From the small pool of slimy substance which, when coming into contact with my bare heel, has sent me skiing off the staircase landing to the hairball which always, ALWAYS is projected onto the rug, these occurrences illustrate my oft-exasperated sigh, ‘This is why we can’t have nice things.’

Dark area rugs with patterns are useful for hiding stains with their busy design, however, this has also worked against us by hiding the offending ‘gift’ until we’ve actually stepped in it. But a sturdy paper towel and vinegar spray generally handle things quickly.

Generally.

“What is that?” asked Paul, two minutes after we sat down, balancing dinner plates on our knees, preparing to watch another murder-mystery episode of Vera on Britbox.

“What?” I mumbled through a mouthful of veggie burger.

“Don’t move,” he warned. “By your left foot. I think it’s part of a mouse.”

I wiped my mouth. “Oh, thank you. Thank you very much. What a lovely image as I’m eating.”

I placed my dinner plate on the coffee table and immediately yelled at two of our cats who, in a nano-second, attempted to abscond with whatever was left on the plate. One dog, Posey, blinked her eyes in concerned innocence and Poppy, wanting to avoid whatever was to come, took to the mudroom.

I hunched over the ‘mouse’ and declared, ‘It’s not a mouse, it’s a hairball, but there appears to be blood, so we may be in for an emergency trip to the vet.’

“Except we don’t know which cat. Or dog,” Paul pointed out.

“Definitely cat,” I mused, peering closer. “But now I’m not sure if it is blood. I’m seeing little bits of red…and pink! This is weird.”

Feeling exactly like Vera— or any other forensic crime investigator— I began to piece together the trail that resulted in the offering now in front of me. Paul couldn’t resist.

“Time of death?”

I didn’t miss a beat. “Hard to say for sure but the state of rigor suggests 2 to 4 hours. I’m going upstairs now so whatever you do, don’t contaminate the crime scene.”

As I entered the bedroom, my bare foot felt the first clue: water. “What the-?”

Denying the urge to draw a chalk outline around the small puddle and number it, I ventured to the bedside table where the small ceramic vase I’d used to contain a pink peony blossom as well as a red rose— a blood red rose— had stood. Getting down on my knees and flipping up the bed skirt, my eyes fell upon the vase, lying on its side underneath the bed with a trail of petals scattered around the now shattered blooms.

“It was Colonel Mustard in the library with the peonies,” I announced to Paul as I descended the stairs with petals in my outstretched hand. “And I’ll bet it was—“

At that moment, our youngest and greediest had snatched and bolted with my half-eaten hamburger bun.

“GEORGIE!!”