Dog Poop and Bread

When we take Mr. T for a walk, some combination of family members will take him nearly every evening after dinner during the week - during the weekend he goes out mid-mornings - anyway one particular night, it was just me to take him for a walk. I went to grab a baggie to pick up the poop. No baggie. Crap! I looked around, I needed something. There are those that do not pick up the poop and those that do.

I am one that will, at least 95% of the time. Let me tell you the times I do not. If, in the winter time, he poops in the middle of the street and there is snow and ice, I have been known to kick snow over the poop and walk on. He often poops in the middle of the road. His way of getting back at us freer humans, or so he thinks. He suddenly stops, hunches up, and knocks 'em down - though not like a Bison, more like a dog. Thighs a quivering, he then scampers quickly away from the scene of the crime, making room for me to come in and clean-up. When the roads are clear I always pick up the poop from the road.

If he poops in a stretch of wooded area that is not a yard belonging to a house, I will leave it. It is a relatively small stretch and I think he has only made a deposit there once or twice. He much prefers the road or a well-manicured lawn. The smoother the surface the less likely his ass will be bothered with.

I always pick up out of yards. In fact, Mr. T will sometimes go through the motions of pooping, but will not actually poop. It is strange and it makes me very guilty. As if under the pressure from a man peering out of his window with a sweaty gun in his hands, I, too, will go through the motions. Making to pick up a pile of poop that isn't there. I try to be as convincing as possible in my performance to keep the bullets off my back. I bend all the way down, swipe at the grass, collect a stick or a leaf that in some ways resembles shit, seal the baggie, scrunch up my noise as if it smells bad, and look around while giving that "look brother, I picked up dog poop, kind of a drag, but ain't that part of having a dog" - again just trying to keep under the radar - trying not to let the others know the depths of my insanity or differences in thought and priorities.

OK - so back to my lack of something to pick up the poop. There on the counter. We recently bought a new loaf of bread - there was the old loaf - down to one heel (I'll usually eat those), but the bag...Mr. T was getting uppity so I quickly grabbed the bag and out of the door I flew.

Within two blocks, Mr. T produced a dark three incher. I paused and considered. The heel of bread would be ruined so I grabbed the heel and like a mouth it grabbed Mr. T's creation. My yeasty tongs held securely my required prize. As my wrist rotated to place it in the bag - I saw that it looked like a sandwich of sorts. A strange little hot dog. Obviously the person ran out of hot dog buns and had to make do with regular bread. I stood there, in the sun, when a tap on the shoulder snapped me out of my spacey considerations.

An old man, homeless and without teeth, leathered after years of meth use, abandoned by humanity and family, asked me for some money. I was shocked, and initially terrified. There have never been homeless persons wandering around here before, plus he kind of surprised me.
I told him that I did not carry any money when I walked the dog, but I did have a delicious beef sandwich, if we would like it. He eagerly accepted and gobbled it down as he turned and disappeared in the glare of the setting sun.

I was hopeful that he would receive a good dose of crude proteins and confident, that at the very least, he would enjoy the bread.