I’m walking Fiona yesterday morning and she’s being all choosy about where she poops,* and for some reason that always drives me crazy. Usually, her bathroom bouts are easy – she does try to please me, and I’m sure she fears my unreasonable, scary response when she doesn’t perform to my liking (think about Cruella’s reaction when the puppies don’t have their spots yet…). Yesterday she had me in an alley, on a strip of shaggy grass, in front of a house draped with fishing nets and a sign on the front door that said: SURFERS FOR JESUS.
Funny Little Neighborhood…
I live in Jacksonville Beach. It’s a funny little neighborhood with fishing shacks nestled in the shadows of high-rise condos (the result of stalled “gentrification”), and all walks of people and dogs. For some reason, there are always stray garbage cans in front of the houses. If we’re far from the discrete, “DOG REFUSE ONLY” bin near the back entrance of my condo, I sneak Fiona’s full poop bag into one of them.
Yesterday morning, when I tossed the poop bag in, I also threw in the impressive wad of keys I carry (jangling like a janitor) on our walks. The garbage can was just tall enough, that I couldn’t reach the bottom. And it was industrial grade heavy. So I had to put Fiona’s leash over my forearm like a Gucci purse (as if she’d ever run away…), and upend the garbage onto the gravel alleyway. As I was kneeling, elbow deep in the remains of the Surfer’s for Jesus effuse (Fiona straining her fancy lead), a car pulled up out of nowhere. The guy in the car rolled down the window and asked, “Is that a metaphor?”
I need to marry that guy.
Although, I think it’s actually symbolism…
*It seems like I talk about poop a lot, so I went back and looked at my posts and I only talk about it when the subject is Fiona (or Dartmoor ponies).