Tuesday, August 4, 2009

August 4 (3.1 miles)

My dog Townes nudged me awake this morning and we locked eyes. "Let's do this, " he seemed to say to me. Wasn't sure what "this" was, though; I took him outside, fed him some food, cuddled a bit. But his eyes still met mine with that determined glare that says, "You dumb ass, I said let's do this." So I took him on my scheduled run.

It's always a sensitive issue when you're on the trail and your dog decides it's time to defecate. The stares are heavy, silent, and disapproving. I feel like yelling at these gawkers, "O.K., so he's not potty trained yet." Seriously people.

I usually bring a bag to pick up his refuse, but sometimes I forget. This morning would be one of those times.

Once Townes goes into that "mode," there's no turning back. At this point, I can quickly flee the scene and not look back; I could cover the offending pile with sticks and dirt; or I could nudge it the the side of the trail with my shoe. Inexplicably, today I chose the latter. To the disgusted fascination of many runners-by, I pushed the pile out of harm's way. Of course, any fool could've predicated at least a quarter of the pile would end up on your shoe from such a method. And this indeed happened here. I dragged my foot along the ground, hoping to scrape off the offending smear. The smear stayed and simply accumulated mass, a whole mess of grass and dirt and rocks now attached to it. I started stamping my foot on the ground, and the splotch broke up and kind of sprayed into the air. Pretty sure some of the debris landed on an old guy's leg.

And at this point, I adopted my first dog shit strategy -- quickly flee the scene and don't look back.

I wonder of hte laws of karma apply to dog shit as well. If they do, I might be in trouble.

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