A saturday story
Mostly my Saturdays are pretty normal: coffee, farmer’s market, clean the house, walk the dog. Last Saturday, though, one event stands out because it was something I’d never before done, not in my whole life. Exciting, right!? Never before! See, I was walking the dog—she doesn’t walk, she runs, so this has become my exercise regimen—and we’d been zigzagging around the big park near our home for twenty minutes, running from tree to tree, looking for squirrels and looking a bit deranged to anyone watching. It was very cold, and so we needed to cut the hunt short and get home. I’d realized at some point that I’d failed to bring a poop bag. I am very conscientious and always pick up her poop, even though sometimes I have to hunt hard for it—Tansy is a five pound streak of fur, tongue, and attitude in a teeny tiny puffer coat. But we’d been running around the park long enough that I figured I’d dodged a bullet on the poop front. As we walked home, however, she did decide to poop, and not
