Not long ago, Paul and I were sitting on a porch shooting the shit when little Marty walked up to us with a stick and tried to whack me with it. This isn't all that uncommon an occurrence, and I did my standard shift to the side, allowing the force of the blow to spend itself down my arm. We went back to talking, but I soon caught whiff of something foul. I looked down at my sleeve and noticed unpleasantness smeared there, so I asked Marty, "Hey, is there dog poo on that stick?" He answered "Yeah..." as though that should have been obvious from the start.
A week later, he said to Pablo, "I'm sorry I put dog poo on Peter..."