Dingleberry Shame

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I am at the pet store buying supplies for my roommates, my black cat and blue fish. There is a young woman at the grooming counter. She has her cat in a small pink plastic carrier. She waits for the attendant to finish a phone call. When she does, the girl speaks in a hushed tone and I strain to hear.

Groomer: Hi, can I help you?

Hush: Uh, yeah. Well, my cat, she needs a grooming.

Groomer: Okay. Let's see. Is she long-haired? What do you want done?

Hush: Well, she needs some stuff cleaned off. And she won't let me do it.

Groomer: What do you mean? What stuff?

Hush: Ahhh! This is embarrassing. They're, you know, by her butt. Dingleberries. You know?

Groomer: Berries? No -

Hush: No! Not like real berries. You know, dingleberries. POOP. Stuck there in the hair.

Groomer: Oh! Okay! I've never heard of that name. Okay. No problem. Let's have a look.

The cat owner is simply flushed red with embarrassment. I have to laugh and I do. I tell her I battle with dingleberries, too. I wonder how long she practiced that explanation. Modesty's interpretation sure is different for everyone.