The tricky bit comes when I too am a guest in the home, my beastie by my side. Having the misfortune of being the first one to discover the present, I must decide: Inform the other beastie owner of the clean-up on Aisle Three or do it myself? The answer revolves around figuring out if the size of the gift could reasonably have come from my beastie. If the answer is no, I'm more likely to inform the actual owner. If the answer is yes, well, that could spark a very entertaining game.
This leads to really knowing the strength and nature of your friendships, both with the homeowner and the beastie owner. Good close friends will debate who fed their beastie which identifiable end-product: corn, Greenies, or underwear. Inevitably such sleuthing devolves from beastie diets into personal digestive discussions.
Scatological TMI at its most hilarious and vile.
Friends with whom a certain level of civility and decorum form the bedrock of the relationship would not be amused. Matter of fact, they might be disinclined to permit my beastie in their home ever again. They might even ban me from their now tainted abode. As a recluse, this punishment isn't that devastating for me. Nay, nay. It could be considered incentive. Unfortunately, I have a weakness for free booze and food.
No in-home shitting on command.
Concern stems from the other beastie owner. Are they the sort who believes their furry companion is some sort of special snowflake who would never defile someone's home. These are also the same sort of people who don't curb their beasties because they have discovered the one shit-less breed. It is these owners who will always, always be the sad recipient of the very loud, very public announcement.
"Damn, Ethel, did Fluffy just shit your tampon string on the ivory damask couch?"
However, if the other beastie owner is normal about beastie's bodily functions, then I can be a true friend and police the presents without alerting the media.
Just be wary of flaming paper bags.