Tiny tardy turds

When Sam was younger, he’d do what every self-respecting dog does: he’d ask to go out, I’d put his leash on, we’d go to the dog park, he’d search for the perfect spot, sniff it carefully, circle it three times, and then squat and dump. Then he’d jump up and go play with his friends while I discreetly scooped it into a plastic bag and threw it in the garbage can.

Now? Now he just goes wherever and whenever the urge strikes. More and more frequently, it’s not in the park, or even outside. The other morning he just stopped in the middle of the street, right in front of a car at a stop sign, and assumed the position. A tiny turd plopped out immediately. I took my plastic bag out of my pocket and quickly scooped up the turd. Still in squat position, Sam waddled a few steps and stopped. He strained over the second turd. While the seconds ticked by, I glanced sheepishly at the driver of the stopped car. A second, more substantial, turd was eventually liberated, and again I quickly scooped it up. Sam shuffled slowly forward, and then positioned himself for the third turd. This turd put up a struggle of epic proportions: it wasn’t going down without a fight. I stood there helplessly and shrugged apologetically at the waiting driver. He glanced at his watch. I’m sure a full minute had passed since he arrived at the stop sign. I tugged on the leash. “C’mon Sam,” I implored, “This is embarassing. Let’s save that one for the park.”

But of course my words fell on deaf ears, because Sam is, after all, deaf. He held his position. He splayed his legs a little further apart for a wider squat. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the driver again. I just stared at Sam and felt acutely aware of the relativity of time. Sam finally wrestled the third turd to the ground. It was about the size of a mothball. He turned around and studied it with a confused expression.

I briefly considered photographing the third turd for the blog, but I didn’t want to humiliate myself further in front of the waiting driver. I grabbed the microscopic turd with my bag, flashed a triumphant smile at the driver, and Sam and I finished crossing the street. I kind of wish I had photographed it. Maybe the driver was a blogger. He could have blogged about being being late for work because of a constipated dog and his photographer.