A to Z Honesty - P is for pooch licking

We have a tall table and chairs. Like bar chairs. I don't know whose stupid idea it was to get tall chairs. (Mine.) But they're so tall that my feet don't touch the ground. They dangle, like they're trolling, like they're fat white worms waiting for something to come by and LICK them.

My dog (OK, my POOCH - that's my P word, OK, are you satisfied Laura Eno???? sheesh... :), who is about six inches tall and is the breed known as Lickemus Anythingus, licks my toes every chance she gets. Like, right now, I just became aware that my big toe is wet.

Which freaks me out. Is it wet because she sashayed by when I wasn't paying attention (blogging) and did a drive-by licking? Or did I step in cat barf on the way to the coffee pot and am only noticing it now because the dog was licking off the cat barf?

I can't look because my toes are too far away. Stupid bar chairs. I certainly can't lift my foot that high for closer inspection. My only recourse is to reach down, blindly, and feel my big wet toe with my bare dry fingers.

What if it really is cat barf? Worse, what if it's a pooch turd? What if it's moldering dead mouse guts, or a squished chipmunk? Did I tell you I once found a chipmunk head in my bedroom and the disemboweled body in the living room? Speaking of chipmunks, a couple of years ago one drowned in our rain barrel. Nobody noticed it for two weeks. It was swollen up the size of a football. I went to get some water for my garden, saw that and to this day I can't go near a rain barrel without hearing the theme from Psycho, that reet-reet sound when the knife plunges into Janet Leigh through the shower curtain.