I’m outside walking diesel (18 lb bichon #1) and he’s taking his sweet time to find a spot to shit. Normally, he’s got no problem backing up to the living room rug and releasing his meatball. Anywhere, anytime. And that’s when he’s inside and no one’s looking.
When he’s outside and it’s ass cold, and I’m holding his leash, he has to be more discriminating. He paces and stops and turns and inspects, and sniffs the ground like he works for homeland security.
“Just take a shit already, you little turd,” I say.
I’ve almost lost feeling in my extremities due to the cold.
Nope. Got to find the perfect spot. Anything less will simply not do. Not exactly sure why, but there is something in the fickle nature of canine bowels that mandates a militarily precise landing zone when the dog is on leash. Must be a control thing.
Whatever it is, it’s more than a little annoying.
As cold as I am, I can’t just slam shut the window of opportunity. Here’s why: Earlier in the day we were walking past the event hall. They were having a BBQ and I started flapping my jaw with the cook. We got so into it that she burned the sausage beyond legal human consumption.
Diesel, as if on queue, opened his puppy dog eyes wide and it was a short trip to a plate of blackened sausage. He ate 6 inches of sausage and that’s got to hurt folks.
So I knew that it wouldn’t be long before we saw that mass one way or another. Meanwhile, what can I do but yell at him to hurry up.
Because I’m cold…
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