Late in the afternoon, I take Brun for a walk while Sam cooks away his migraine. He’s been on the couch for most of the day with his hand over his face, but he says he has to cook, and it might help, after how many painkillers?
Brun and I head up G Street, down R Lane, down Little F Street, down B Lane, and right down M Street.
As we are heading up M Street to G Street, Brun does his final shit. (Not to put too finer point, as they say) That is the last of 3 shits. The boy knows how to crap. I pick up the shit in a green baggie, you know like you do, and I think to myself, self? (Look where I am) I could feel the devilish grin spread across my face. I know where this is going to go. I look in the distance. What is it, 1XX M Street? I could almost see it from where we were standing. Almost.
He may not even remember slamming his gate on Brun’s head, but I do. And he may never understand why bags of poo are deposited on the step to his gate, but I do.
One afternoon we walked along the footpath behind him, and when he stepped through his gate, Brun tried to follow him, just like inquisitive pups do, probably without thinking, what’s in there? At which point our man the animal lover slammed his gate shut repeatedly on the side of Brun’s head until he got the gate shut, sans Brun.
So, fuck him. I hope he steps in every last bag of dog pooh. Truthfully, I only drop them on his step occasionally. It is a timing issue. So, when the time is right…
As Brun and I approach G Street, there is a couple with a staffy on the other side that appears to be aggressive and it is twirling about excitedly, I assume looking for another dog. It couldn’t have been Brun, we weren’t in his line of vision. They walk up M Street in front of us at a glacial pace, so Brun and I have to fall back and wait for them to pass the gate for which we are aiming. Grrr! But, finally, they pass by the head slammer’s gate, and Brun and I cross the road.
As we cross the road, two women, what look like a mother and daughter, come out of the house opposite. The daughter is holding a cat, and the mother looks as though she is on a mission. (serious. Staring unwaveringly ahead. I could almost hear the Viking horn of battle) I assume they are having a cat issue. They cross the road and stand in front of the house next to the gate as though they are waiting for someone to come out, of the house, not the gate. Brun and I continue walking passed the gate in question, turning at the next corner when we get to it. What else could we do? I could hardly drop the poo bag on the step in full view.
We took a few steps along the next street when I look down at the green bag of poo still in my hand. (The guy slamming the gate on Brun flashes in my head) Bugger it, I think. I turn Brun around and head back again.
As we approach the corner again, a bleach blond stick insect of a girl crosses across M Street from the other side. She stops as soon as she gets to our side and is clearly writing a text message on her phone. Bruno and I slow our pace.
We wait.
I can hear a motor bike somewhere behind me.
The bleach blond stick insect finally starts to move again, so Brun and I do too. We turn the corner and take a few steps along M Street, when I realise the motor bike is on the footpath behind me, and I realise it is the motor bike that usually parks on the foot path just by ‘the’ gate. Brun and I step out of its way. Brun contently sniffs at the tree we are just next to.
I look up to see the bleach blond stick insect has now stopped in front of the gate in question and is typing out further text messages, as the motor bike passes us heading for its usual parking spot.
Well, I think? Do I need that proverbial wall to fall down? I chuckle, wide-eyed, I am sure. This is like fucking Bourke Street. How many people do I need to get my way to tell me that I won’t be doing a pooh drop on his doorstep today? Seriously?
I pull Brun away from the tree and turn him in the direction of home.
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