While my grandmother’s sisters frequently came to call much to her delight, nothing created the palpable air of excitement and great anticipation like the annual visit of her only brother.Born a few years after Trixie, Bennett Baudelaire was the youngest of six children and doted upon by all five of his sisters. Tintypes or whatever was passing for photos back in the Flintstones age showed him to be quite a dandy even as a child. While his sisters stood sullen and raggedy around him, Bennett was in the forefront of these photos, dressed in the finest knickers and sporting a cap, his arms akimbo and a dazzling smile plastered across his face. He looked like every kid you ever wanted to kick the shit out of after school. And yet despite this air of assumed superiority, Bennett’s sisters looked upon him as though he were God himself.

After finishing high school — as the only son, he would need an education! — Bennett struck off on his own to see the world and make his fortune. Following a brief sojourn in San Francisco, he ended up in Nevada where he met the mesmerizing and ethereal Beulah, an ebony tressed waitress and part time pawn shop clerk with a taste for the finer things. They were soon married and raising 3 daughters of their own. Together, Bennett and Beulah would get in on the ground floor of the Nevada real estate boom and make their fortunes.

But alas, like the tale of Trudy and Milton, Bennett and Beulah’s love story also came to a tragic and premature end. A life long chain smoker, Beulah was killed when she was thrown from a horse.

Bereft and inconsolable, Bennett spent the next few years raising his daughters and concentrating on the business. After much cajoling and nagging from his offspring, he once again dipped his toe in the dating waters. And being a dashing man in his 60s with a wardrobe Porter Wagoner would have committed crimes against humanity for, Bennett found himself at no loss for female companionship.

Every trip back home would find him accompanied by an different lady friend, each clad in frou frou couture and scrunching her nose up at Bennett’s humble roots. There was Christine, who refused to sit down lest she get cat hair on her pantsuit, choosing instead to stand beside Bennett’s chair for hours drinking tea and looking like an escapee from Madame Tussauds; Evelyn, a widow with a taste for hard liquor and ballroom dancing; Joan, who corrected our abysmal table manners and shameful grasp of the English language every chance she got; and then there was the only woman who ever accompanied him on more than one trip, Lucy.A diminutive woman a foot shorter than Bennett, Lucy was a champion poodle breeder, who always made the trip with at least one dog in tow. We never saw Lucy in anything other than jeans and cotton shirts with the sleeves rolled up, her hair pulled back in a casual ponytail. She was always friendly and open, presenting herself as a real person with a warm heart and a good head on her shoulders.

Well, a warm heart anyway.

Our opinion of that good head part shifted ever so slightly on their third trip together, which coincided with Bennett’s 70-something birthday. That was the year Lucy brought along a large grey poodle, Commodore, who we learned upon their arrival was suffering from a case of the “I-can’t-shit”s. Yep, the poor lil pom-pom-ed poochie was constipated.

Fast forward to Saturday and Bennett’s birthday party. Everyone was there: Trudy, Trixie, Dolly, Carrie, Tess, even Aunt Carol and Uncle Rob. As everyone dined on Bennett’s favorite meal of fried chicken and biscuits, Commodore began to whine. Soon, it was a low howl.If you’ve ever tried to eat and enjoy light conversation with a death rattle as the soundtrack, then you know how difficult this can be. But if there is one thing my family excels at, it’s ignoring the suffering of others — including one of their own — so they just ate and talked louder, until Lucy eventually took Commodore out for another walk in the hopes of his producing some turdage.

Sadly, it wasn’t meant to be.

Shortly after her return, we all gathered around the birthday boy and sang a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday.” After he had blown out the candles — a confetti colored “7″ and some other number — Carrie began serving cake and ice cream. Seated once more in the living room, we noticed that Lucy and Commodore were again missing. But since there were more pressing matters in the form of our sinfully delicious desserts, we quickly forgot about her.

That is until Aunt Carrie had to “make a tinkle.”

Here’s how it went down:

Aunt Carrie excused herself and made her way to the bathroom.

Seconds later, an ear piercing howl assaulted our ears.

Clutching her peter pan collar, an ashen Carrie staggered back into the living room, her mouth attempting to form words but making no sound. Her eyes darted about the room, moving from face to face for a few moments, until she lurched into the kitchen. Seconds later, everyone followed en masse.

Everyone, that is, except for my mother and me.

Both being strong believers that no second hand account could ever substitute for being there, we headed straight for the bathroom. My mother gently gave the door a push, revealing to us a tableau no sane mind (or in my mother’s case, no insane one) could have conceived of.

Commodore in the bathroom sink.

Lucy’s left hand gripping his collar.

And her right hand?

Gripping a teaspoon.

Which she was using to extract the shit from the purebred’s ass.

“He has an impaction,” Lucy announced, her eyes never leaving Commodore’s puckered back door. “If I don’t get it out, he could suffer a ruptured bowel. I’ve had to do this before…he’ll get a hard nugget just lodged in there and it will completely back him up.”

“Huh. Well, we’ll let you take care of that,” my mother said, shutting the door. Seconds later, we both burst into peals of laughter.

***Epilogue: Carrie stood outside the bathroom door until Lucy had finished, then took the teaspoon in question, wrapped it in several pieces of paper towel, placed the mummified utensil inside a bread wrapper which she tied shut and then took immediately to the garbage can.

Bennett and Lucy stopped dating after their return home.

And years later, when told I would need an enema before surgery, I briefly considered the alternative, then quickly acquiesced.