Before you read this article, read the A Date That Will Live In Infamy post below. Otherwise my poop references will make no sense.
The rest of the story (I bet you read that just like Paul Harvey didn’t you?)
We got home from work at about 10:15pm.
No backhoe. No pickup. No Kent.
A quick peek in the hole reveals no dead bodies, either animal or Kent. Our luck is holding.
We walk into the house, noses held high, in case we might have to run due to the odor.
I peek in the bathroom. No Mount Vesuvius of poop and best of all, the toilet has quit wiggling and blurping.
“You go flush it.”
Always make the man go first. This is why we got married. Men flush first, and squish spiders. It’s an unwritten rule.
I, and all seven cats backed away slowly.
I love Kent.
That night it POURS. I mean rock ‘n roll thunderstorm with buckets o’ water.
No way is Kent coming in this. Best he stays home. Besides, we’re flushable. All is good.
Next day at 2pm, as I’m heading down the road, Kent shows up, backhoe in tow.
3:30pm, Kent is done. “Come help me put these lids on.”
He’s a man of very few words.
Chris helped him put the lids on, and paid the man. $490.00.
Now, most of you know I work in the restaurant biz right?
This man worked through rain, mud, poop and God knows what else on just a few hours notice. He lifted tons of mud, drove out to our place 3 times, and -even though neither of them knew it- probably saved Chris’s life. =)
And he asks for $490.00.
So what did we do?
We tipped the septic tank guy.
And we hired him to come back in a month or so to put extenders on the lids so we never have to do this again.
I love Kent.