Last week was a bad time to choose to do story week. I wasn't at home, I didn't have my computer, and I was working quite a bit. But this week, THIS week, you're fucking IN for it.

Tomorrow: Going Off Antidepressants Shouldn't Involve the Police

Here's a true story for ya:

I'm so hot I could shit lava.

The end.

This week, I'll be posting a true story everyday.

I live with a murderer.

When you're dogsitting for two adorable, energetic and loyal pups, one of the last things you expect to deal with is murder. You may expect a week full of cuddles, belly rubs, and hiking, but finding ways to dispose of corpses is the last thing to cross your mind.

On Friday night, I let the dogs out for a run in the backyard while I tried to figure out how to make the notes I was pressing in Guitar Hero make a sound. It was a balmy night, and even though the house sits on a river I knew that the fence kept the dogs from escaping. Seth had come over for a 4th of July grilling; as he was leaving, I decided to call the dogs in for the night.

That's when I smelled it.

The black dog was laying in the yard, front legs folded in front of her, gingerly pushing something roughly the size of a football with her nose. The light for the backyard didn't reach her, so I couldn't tell what the football-sized thing was. But the SMELL. The smell burned at the back of your throat and brought tears to your eyes. It was remniscent of the garbage that sticks to the bottom of the dumpster at the back of a NYC restaurant, hot and sour from the summer heat, with a twist of DEATH STANK to really bring the point home.

"Don't let that dog lick you tonight," said Seth, directly before he skirted away using the back gate.

I didn't know what the garbage-smelling football was, but I knew that come morning I. Would. Have. To. Deal. With. It.

It was a restless night. It rained heavily, and I was kept awake by the rumblings of thunder. I was plagued by dreams, hopeful dreams in which nature would find a way to move the dead football without my having to go near it. I dreamed of mighty floods that washed the carcass away, tiny tornadoes that swept it to the neighbor's yard.

It was still there in the morning.

I tried to avoid it. Knowing that the dogs would go right for it instead of peeing when I let them out, I put them on leashes and tried to walk them around the perimeter of the yard. They both strained against the cords, eager to catch a glimpse of the body. I weighed the odds: What would suck more - having two dogs rip apart a soggy carcass, or having to clean up their piss and shit inside the house?

This house has easy-to-wipe hardwood floors.

I had to get rid of that thing. I knew that I couldn't call Seth. Not only was it too early, but I could already hear his cackling on the other end of the phone, groggily calling me a "pussy" and telling me to just scoop up the body and toss it into the reeds, as if I make it a daily practice to rid our lawn of rotting mammals. I went to the shed and got a shovel, psyching myself up the entire time. "It's dead it's dead it's dead it's dead," I muttered. "Just shove it just shove it just shove it just shove it." I moved closer, stepping gingerly, cautiously, as if I expected the animal to spring up on its hind legs, point at me, yell "GOTCHA!", and gallop into the woods. I got close enough to see that the animal was a possum - a stinky, soggy, water-bloated possum that looked and smelled as if it had been set in a microwave on HIGH for twenty minutes. I got close enough to see the rough, red, gnarled flesh where it's face should've been, a face that the black dog had no doubt spent a good portion of the evening chewing off the night before.

I threw up. There was no warning, no heaving - I just puked the contents of my stomach next to the body, tossed the shovel to the other side of the yard and walked back into the house. "Fuck this fuck this fuck this FUCK THIS."

My options were limited, so I went to work and told my boss I needed her to do me a solid.

To look at Pam, you wouldn't think she'd be well-equipped to take care of this sort of thing. She's gorgeous and calm. She wears loose, flowing tops and always looks like she's about to spend the day on a beach with a novel instead of doing back-breaking work at a nursery all day. But she grew up on a farm, I thought, and has had her fair share of animal husbandry. This won't phase her.

She agreed to help me, laughing as she climbed into the car. "I can't believe this sort of thing upsets you". Casually spoken, as if "this sort of thing" equated to plunging a toilet, or breaking up a turd with a hanger.

When we arrived at the house, I took a minute to hose my vomit out of the lawn from 20 feet away, knowing she'd have to walk there to get rid of the possum. I grunted, pointing towards the shovel and ran towards the fence farthest away from the scene of the crime. I didn't want to know what was happening, but I couldn't look away. Pam used the shovel to pick up the dead possum, actually saying the word "aw" at one point. "Aw, poor thing doesn't have a face."

It's important to know who your friends are. It's more important to know which of your friends you can count on in times of crisis. It's comforting that I know who I can call if my car breaks down on the freeway, or if I need bail money. And as I watched that gray, faceless, withering carcass soar through the air, arms akimbo, I felt a certain comfort knowing that I had now found my friend who would gladly handle the bodies.