LET'S TALK ABOUT POOP, BABY...

Let's talk about you and me; duh-duh-duh-duh-DAH-duh-duh-duh-DUH. Er, or something like that. My boy, Lou, whom you may have read about once or twice on this here weblog amazes me, sometimes.

A little background information: A couple of months ago, Lou was regressing back into puppyhood. He was declining to poop when asked, opting instead to shit in the luxury of the apartment whilst I was off at work. He and I had a couple of scrapes over that, lemme tell ya. Added to the inside defecation, Lou also found it behooved him to dig in the trash when I was gone at work (see a theme, here?) and strew said trash all over the kitchen floor. If he got lucky and found a plastic OJ bottle in the trash, well, then, he'd found an afternoon of delight.

In the past, Lou has also found women's underwear (thongs, particularly) to be perfectly acceptable playthings.

Here is what Lou did to amaze me. Last night, I took Lou Outside at about 11:45, at which time he squatted and dropped a load. Good boy, I told him and led him back into the warmth of the apartment. Today at 10:00, when I had a meeting to go to, I took him outside and he declined to poop. (I think he was playing the conscientious objector card. Who knows?) Anyway, I went to the meeting and ran a couple of errands afterwards and got home around 1:00. I had half an hour before I had to leave for work, so I made the most of my time--I read my emails and I scanned the Flickr sites and sat down to start on a 'blog. After staring blankly at the screen for about 28.7 minutes, I looked up at the Superman alarm clock and saw that it was nigh time to leave.

"Louie!" I rasped, "time to go Outside!"

Plastic poop bag in hand, I ventured Outside with leash'd Lou. Whereupon he hemmed and he hawed and he, again, declined to poop. (He made a few feeble attempts at the Dance of Squat, but then turned to me, each time, his ears back and his eyes wide, as if to say, "I would if I could, Dad, but I can't so please don't shoot me." I ended up not shooting him...but it was close.) I knew what this meant: It meant that I would go to work and then come home to the earthy aroma of Shit Inside.

"Damn you, Lou!" I screeched at my apartment door as I drove off. "Damn you to Hell!" A hand-in-hand couple blanched at me from the sidewalk and gave my silver four-door 2002 Ford Focus hatchback a wide and wider berth. "What're you looking at?!" I shrieked at them. "You ever have to clean up oxidized dog shit from a parquet floor?! Dante's got nothin' on me, baby!" (Hands clasped, they turned and took to their heels, eyes wide. The woman slipped on a patch of mud and fell awkwardly to a knee, skinning it badly. As I drove past them, north on Crooks, I glanced over and saw the tears rolling down her face. Her face beet-red and her eyes squinched tight, she looked like the world's biggest, chestiest baby.)

Anyway.

I went to work and, while I was there, doing my duties, I made peace with the fact that I would have to go home and pick up dog shit. Let go, let God, I reminded myself countless times during the shift.

"Thy will be done," I said to the cashier at the gas station. He looked at me sideways and slowly scanned my pack of gum. "Uh...nothing," I mumbled.

I ended up working late. I was given a meter installation at 9:30, an hour before I was scheduled off. By the time I got to the site, it was 10:00. The job had a more than a few snags to it, so I ended up getting back to the headquarters at 11:15. Forty-five minutes at time-and-a-half is always a good thing, but, thinking back to Lou and the apartment, I knew that my goose was cooked.

By the time I got back home, it was 11:45. To endow this snapshot of Time with the gloss of relativity, Lou had ostensibly gone 24 hours without dropping a yellowish-brown slip-log. I have trouble doing that, and I'm somewhat-domesticated, not an unintelligent beast like Lou-dog. (He's smart, I know, I just did that for effect. Affected?)

I threw open my apartment door and slowly tip-toed inside. I was careful to look where I was walking so that I wouldn't squelch on Interloper Brown. And but what to my wondering eyes should appear? Not a damn drop of shit and Lou's grin splitting ear. I whooped with joy (not really) and I threw my arms around Lou (not really) and I kissed him on his snout and said that he was a good good good boy (really).

Outside we went and Lou led the way, purposefully walking--as only bully breeds can--to his favorite Dropping Zone. Dropped he did and I reiterated that he was a good good good boy and then we went back inside and I should have given him a damn Scooby Snack. Shit. My bad.

Next time he goes 24-Poopless, I will.