I would like to dedicate this story to my sister, Melissa. Mel, this poo's for you.
A few evenings ago I decide to take Riley and Zera for a walk. It is pissing down rain and getting dark. I'm wearing my rain jacket partially zipped up, with the hood down. This jacket also has big pockets that sort of gape open (these details are relevant later).
As with most dogs, walks are the BEST. THING. EVER. for Riley and Zera, and they freak out for the first few blocks, pulling me along while I lean back on my heals, water-skiing style. So we leave the house and go lurching forward down the driveway. As soon as we hit the sidewalk Zera squats down and unloads herself. Then both dogs try to take off into the unknown universe of Beach Drive. I'm doing my best to keep them from sweeping me off my feet as I stick my hand in a plastic bag and bend down to pick up the poo.
Just as my hand curls around it (but before I can secure it in the bag), the dogs go nuts at something behind me. They whip me around and not five feet away is a woman with one of those small little yappy dogs that you want to use in football practice. She's just standing there, holding a grocery bag, watching me.
Here I am, one hand trying to reign in two berserker canines that look and sound like they want to eat the little runt, the other holding a steaming mound of dog poop. I think a normal person witnessing this would have removed herself from the equation. Keep walking, cross the street, something. This nut job decides it's a peachy time to strike up a conversation about puppies.
Oh you have a dalmatian I love dalmatians I had one once but he died and do you live down the road because I see one down there all the time but I think it's a different one do you know it my vet says dalmatians are hard to handle but I think they are so cute and I love the movie and did I mention I'm a whack job and you should probably get a restraining order or I'll come over and steal your dog and unravel all your knitting-
The lady fiiiiiinally moves on and I convince Riley and Zera to stop trying to draw and quarter me. This is when I notice that the poo is no longer in my hand. In all the commotion it must have flown into the air. My first thought is Please, not on me. Not in my hood, not down the front, not in the pocket. I gingerly investigate and am relieved to find no excrement on my person. Nor is it on the ground. My second thought is Please, let it be in her grocery bag. Pretty please?
Does that make me a bad person?