Catherine regretted not being a conformist. Why couldn’t she simply wear the ring on the ring finger, where it actually would fit well than on the index finger? To think about it first, always and thus wearing it on the first and not the third finger seemed so stupid a reason now. Only if the ring had fit well, it wouldn’t have slipped into Spot’s feeding bowl.

She had had been rummaging through Spot’s shit for a week now. A week ago, she’d rushed Spot for an MRI to the animal hospital. Spot was alright, a fine, healthy dog. However it was Michael’s ring, that Catherine seeked in the MRI with which he’d proposed Catherine over a five-star, seven course dinner (out of which four courses were completely ignored).

She loved the ring and she loved Michael. They forgot dinner as they drowned in conversation. No one could have missed the twinkle in their talks. Catherine wanted Michael as bad as he wanted her. To show this, she’d bought him a ring too. Equally expensive and equally beautiful. Catherine was a ‘modern’ woman. It was only fair that she’d give a ring too.

Michael was overwhelmed when Catherine said ‘Yes’. He said he’d keep the ring with him forever.

Dog shit has no pleasant feel. And a week of digging her fingers in it probing for a clear-cut diamond attached to a 24-carat loop, hadn’t made Catherine a least bit comfortable to the warmth of poop. But that was her only option, as the Vet said, ”To let it out naturally.”

It was good that Michael had been out of town for that time. He knew nothing of this. She was again at shit-worrying when she got the call.

It was Michael, ”Hi dear! How have you… ummm… How do you like the ring…?”

He confessed to her. While washing his hands in the hotel bathroom, he’d taken out the ring, since it was a ‘tad too tight’ and needed getting used to. However, the bar of soap slipped from his hands and ricocheted on the ring, which in turn fell in the basin and down the sink.