"I’m tellin’ ya, this smart-faced thing here is the spawn of Satan."

This sunny August Sunday morning is so nice. This day is Mike's only. He can do whatever he wants. He can do some work in the garden. Such a nice day, really—at least, it was right up to the point when Mike leaves the house, because the putrid smell of what he finds in his garden makes his stomach turn. Who has done such a disgusting, horrible thing? It wasn't Mike's recently adopted dog, was it?