Sitting in my dark basement lair this evening, I heard The Pony trot into the NASCAR bathroom on the other side of my office wall. He emerged several moments later. He usually goes upstairs to his own bathroom. Not that anybody wouldn't be honored to sit and gaze at the 200-or-so NASCAR Hot Wheels that Farmer H has hung on pegs on the wall, and the hand-painted vanity top with NAScars speeding around a track, while his feet rest on the black-and-white checkered flag of tile.
"Are you sick?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's going around at school. I heard the kids talking about it."
"I did not need to know that."
"It's why they were missing two or three days of school at a time."
"The bowel movements of others in my class are not my concern."
There he goes again. Not caring about people.