Walking The Dogs

I take the dogs for a walk in the morning. Otto has a shit in front of a homewares shop. I pick it up. There’s a couple of minuscule spots of shit left on the footpath, as there often is. Even if you got down and rubbed at it with a plastic poo bag, it probably wouldn’t change it. It might smear it a little, but nothing much else would happen.

There’s a guy out the front of the shop doing something with a ladder, not sure what. 

As I walk away, he says, looking frightfully concerned, “Can you clean that up better than that?” he asks. He points with his finger.

I look back. Seriously, how anal are you, I think. “No mate,” I say. “That’s it. It’s done.”

“Is that all you are going to do,” he asks.

“Yes mate,” I say. “What do you expect?”

“You’re a fuck wit,” he says kind of threateningly.

“Yeah, good onya,” I say as I walk away.

I must walk the dogs by there tomorrow morning, I think, and see if I can get Otto to do another shit. I chuckle to myself. I won’t pick it up at all and I can watch his head explode.