“Her belly is a little bloated, don’t you think?” my brother asked.

He was referring to my dog. At this particular moment, she was lounging next to me on the living room floor, back pressed tightly against my thigh, paws extended into the air, blissfully sighing as I scratched her belly.

“Bloated?” I fretted audibly, “You think she looks bloated?”

I looked down at my dog, worriedly. Generally, she’s pretty healthy. Hell, she’s better than healthy. She’s a finely tuned killing machine! I bought her a couple of years ago after some teenage bastards broke into my house and robbed me blind. The cops didn’t do squat (Big surprise there), so I figured I’d get my own street justice with a vicious man eating dog. However, in the end, I never trained her to do much of anything outside of the typical doggie commands. Despite her size and breed, it’s just not in her individual nature. She loves children and kittens and friends who come bearing treats! Who am I to discourage her? Besides, I often get the sneaking suspicion that if anyone seriously tried to harm me, she’d hurl her massive body into the fray fully prepared to kick a little ass.

My cats, on the other hand, view me as nothing more than a glorified can opener. They’d lick their paws casually as a deranged serial killer stabbed me a half a dozen times. Then, they’d eat my eyes.

“Yeah, she definitely looks bloated,” my brother replied, “Maybe she’s got worms.”

Worms.

Fucking worms.

Nothing gets my gag reflex going like worms. Something about their white, wriggling little bodies makes me feel dizzy. On top of that, the very thought of them makes me feel like they’re crawling all over me.

In fact, a few years ago, I read an article online about worms and shortly thereafter became convinced I had them. The article in question had said that although it was very rare, some people have contracted worms from their cats in the past. At the time, my cat happened to be curled up in my lap. I took one look at him and my butt immediately started to itch. Horrified, I pushed him off of me.

“I think the cat gave me worms!” I told my Husband.

“Why would you think the cat gave you worms?” he asked.

“Because I’ve got itchy butt!”

“Um, take a shower?”

“I just took a shower! My butt still itches!”

My Husband looked over at my computer screen. “Did your butt start itching before or after you started reading that article?”

“I don’t know!” I wailed.

“If you’re that worried about it, go to the Doctor.”

I suppose that is what a rational, clear thinking person would have done. But I am not a rational, clear thinking person. I’m a fucking lunatic. Not only that, but I generally avoid Doctors if I can help it. So instead of seeking the advice of a professional, I scoured the Internet searching for methods I could use to self diagnose.

My first order of business was proving the cat had worms. So I cut up his shit and peered at it with a magnifying glass. I poked and prodded his little asshole looking for telltale signs of ‘rice.’ I found nothing unusual whatsoever.

Still, I was not deterred. I would not rest until I had determined once and for all that I did not have worms. My only problem was that the article I read informed me that worms were light sensitive. It suggested (I kid you not) that you feign sleep in a dark room before examining your anus. After a few minutes, you should shine a flashlight unexpectedly on your ass if you want to successfully catch them in all their wormy glory.

I tried this a couple of times to no avail. I had problems juggling a mirror, a flashlight, and my ass cheeks effectively. Thoroughly frustrated, I sank into bed with a dejected sigh.

Then I had an idea.

“Honey?” I sweetly asked my Husband, “Will you do me a great, big favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Will you check my ass for worms?”

“Are you kidding me? Check your own ass for worms.”

“But I can’t!” I whined, “You have to do it in the dark with a flashlight and I can’t hold the mirror, the flashlight, and my butt cheeks all at the same time.”

“You are seriously not asking me to do it, are you?”

“Well, you see, I’ve been thinking…who else can one depend on to check their ass for worms with a flashlight if not their significant other?”

My husband groaned and reached for the flashlight. “Fine then. Roll over.”

“It’s not that easy,” said I, “I’ve got to pretend I’m sleeping first.”

“Why?”

“So they feel safe enough to wriggle out of my butt! Then, very suddenly, you flick on the flashlight and surprise them.”

“Do worms even get surprised?”

“Butt worms do.”

“Christ.”

I rolled over on my belly and spread my ass cheeks open. Then, I started fake snoring. My goal was to trick the worms into thinking that I always fell asleep with my ass cheeks spread.

After a few minutes, my Husband whispered, “Is it OK to check yet?”

I whispered back, “Yeah, I think so.”

The light flicked on; my shoulders tensed.

“You don’t have worms!” my Husband announced.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Seriously? Are you even looking?”

“I’m looking!”

“Look closer!”

“I am!”

“Maybe we didn’t do it fast enough. Let’s try again.”

“Christ.”

We repeated the entire process with the same results. Apparently, I didn’t have worms. Upon realizing this, my butt almost immediately stopped itching.

That doesn’t mean my husband ever let me live this little situation down though. But whatever, I can laugh at myself. I am fully aware of my innate ridiculousness.

For the record, my dog has an appointment with the vet tomorrow to get checked for worms.

And yes, my butt is currently itching.

Wish us luck!