You’re supposed to get up at the
same time every day, and that’s where dogs come in, because if you get up at
6:15 five days a week, she’s pretty much going to insist that you get up at
that time on days off, too. And then refuse to go out because the neighbors’
sprinklers are running and the noise is too scary. So you have to put on pants
and put her in her harness and take her out front. You think you’ll just take
her in the front yard and she’ll do her business and you can come back in, but
nowhere in the front yard meets her demanding pee spot specifications, so you
end up walking up the street and finally, three houses up, she squats. Okay.
You can turn around and go home now. Except now she thinks you’re on a walk and
doesn’t want to go home. There are
things to smell in the next block, dammit! So when you try to turn back, she
plants her little feet and, in an astounding abrogation of the laws of physics, turns her stocky little fifteen-pound
body into a hundred-pound boulder. When you pull on the leash, she tries to
bite it. You could pick her up. But.
So.
You decide screw it, claw the sleep crust out of your eyes, and start walking,
wondering if the neighbors saw you lose a war of wills to an adorable floof
ball. “I didn’t bring a poop bag,” you tell her. “We weren’t supposed to leave
the yard. So don’t poop.” And you walk, thinking about how good it is that you
have a dog who forces you to exercise and isn’t this what you wanted in the
first place when you decided to adopt dogs? A reason to force you out of the
house? So this is good, right? Right?
And
then she poops.
