The Denizens of the whittlin’ bench arrived one morning to find a large sign over their bench. Carr Benton was standing back admiring his work when the first loiterers arrived for the days’ conversations.
“What the Hell is this all about?” Each new arrival asked.
“Well.” Said Carr “I discovered the word ‘sitooterie’ last week and decided it was the perfect choice for a sign over our bench. It is a word that was first coined in Scotland. It started out as a place to sit outside, but the Scots pronounce out as oot. Then they added a French suffix for class. That’s how it became sitooterie. So in honor of our daily visitors, I added a prefix. That is how I came up with the name “La Bullsitooterie”. Who says English isn’t a living language?”
“Besides” added Carl. “Bullsitoot is kinda onomatopoeic for what goes on here. The ‘la’ and ‘erie’ are little spritzes of French perfume to hide the aroma.” This remark was met with a blank stare from the gathering crowd. The consensus became, “Carl you need to get laid more.”
The fame of the bench grew with the years. The guys were asked about it by people from as far away as twenty miles. Wives would tell their husbands, “Why don’t you go spend some time at the Bullsitooterie. Don’t come home till you get it out of your system.”
La Bullsitooterie is also the home of the world-famous farting dog. Harold always had his dog with him when he went to the feed store. From time to time, someone would say, “God! What is that smell?” While looking at Harold. He would immediately point at the dog and say, “He did that.” It was agreed by all that this dog had issues. So much so, that one Christmas they took up a collection and bought Harold a new dog. It didn’t take long to conclude that it wasn’t the old dogs’ fault. Harold was willing to throw his dog under the bus.
Glenn said. “What happened to the old dog? I hope you didn’t have him put down.”
“God no!” was Harold’s reply. He is happy at home with my wife. I have two dogs to blame it on now.”
“Trust me, Harold. She knows.” Added Glenn.
Harold lives on the edge of town where the farms start. He had a 40-acre plot of land with his home in the back under some trees. There was a long road to the highway in front. That is where his mailbox is located. He used a walking stick to make the long walk from his house to the mailbox. The stick was two feet or so longer than Harold was tall. Vic called it a staff. “The better to cast out idolaters,” he said. He and the farting dog would make the journey every afternoon to the mailbox. The big yellow dog trotted left and right around Harold. Sniffing all along the way. His tail would be sticking up. Sometimes with the taller grass, the tail would be the only thing you see of the dog. As Harold slowly walks up the road, the dog trotting in the background, the dog being the second hand to Harold being the minute hand. He was so slow that it must have been what a pole barge looked like going up the Erie Canal. They always arrived at the mailbox at the same time though. When his neighbor was at his mailbox at the same time too they would chat. Being a retired history teacher, Harold was an interesting chat. The dog would always give the situation a half-hearted “woof” as if to say “I’m on duty”.
Years later when Harold died, the neighbor reported that the next day the farting dog was on the road in front of the mailbox. His tail between his legs and with a doe-eyed look of sadness. When he approached, the dog went back up the road to his house with his tail between his legs and his head down. An old man was mourned by a farting dog.