My dog has an owner who needs to be walked. So I rounded up my canine coach and outfitted her with a purple leash. Then I talked to her before we left the house.
“Now, you’ve already poohed, right, in the privacy of our own backyard, so you don’t need to do it out in public like doggie trash, ok?”
She looked at me sincerely with uncrossed legs.
“Good dog,” I told her.
I didn’t have a doggie bag. She doesn’t have scruples.
Back up the grassy hill we walked to the Little Black Bag dispenser. Then cross country over the grassy hill, searching for the two little nuggets she left for posterity.
“I’m shocked and appalled,” I told her. “You should have done this at home like civilized people.” And we headed back to the sidewalk.
She paused again in the grass beside the concrete walkway, and now four little nuggets shone in the sun.
“What?!” I said sternly. “Now we have to go up that hill, get another Little Black Bag, and come back down here so I, who did not make those messes, can pick them up with only this little piece of black plastic between me and absolute disgust. This is the reason I don’t walk you!”
I carried the little nasty gram back up the hill, just like the one I’d carried five minutes earlier, giving her a piece of my mind the whole way.
“Well, this is just repulsive! And humiliating! Everyone can see what you did right there in broad daylight. And now I’m carrying it. Who’s the pet and who’s the owner? Hmmmmmm??”
We walked purposely for fifteen minutes and then at an accelerated heart rate caused by significant irritation for another ten. That’s three activity points on Weight Watchers.
I think I should get extra credit for bathroom duty.