March 20,
2014
Now that
the majority of the snow has melted off the sidewalks in the neighborhood (as
long as the homeowner/renter has scraped most of it down) there are piles of
dog feces stuck to the surface. I have tried, on numerous occasions, to scoop
up the offending poop, only to inevitably tear open the biodegradable plastic
bag and expose my hand/glove/mitten to the horrible substance.
As I
clean up my own dog’s mess this morning, I attempt to gather another victim’s
discards, in effort to contribute to the neighborhood cleanliness factor.
Backfires on me. Now I am caught, choosing to ignore the remains on the cement,
categorized as the Bad Neighbor who didn’t pick up after the pooch, or skooch
it to the curb as best I can. I cannot hide my guilty features. Everyone can
tell what I am “up to” immediately. Never been a great liar.
As the
man walked out of his front door, spotting me leaning over a stuck pile, I
shudder with shame. “Not my dog’s poo!” I desperately want to bellow. Though it
doesn’t sound very convincing, I try my best to explain the situation in a low
mutter. He glares at me, the offending rolls scattered on the sidewalk and walks
briskly to his car. Damn the Bad Neighbor and the dog who couldn’t hold it in
any longer.
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