August 18, 2013
There is little dignity in
walking the dog ‘round the transitioning neighborhood. Invariably, as the innocent
home owner opens the door to the front or back of the house, the dog takes a
huge dump and I have to scoop it up, scraping down to dirt, taking a big divet
of grass, as though we are visiting a golf course and the offending party (me)
has to replace the turf. The cruelty continues since I threw on a pair of black
socks to wear with my tennis shoes, like a ninety year old lady, who doesn’t
give a damn what the neighbors think. I give a damn, though, and keep glancing
up and down the lane, to make sure no hot guy is coming my way. I’m pretty sure
there is a chance that I would be spotted by him, looking like a total dweeb. I
should resort to preparing a bag with all essential items, like an overdue pregnant
woman, who organizes for the race to the hospital for a delivery. I have to go,
and make a check-list.
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