Poops.

One of the seemingly lost short term memories about the long holiday weekend that finally bubbled to the surface of my rememberances was my brother and me walking the boys.

Check this.

When we have house guests, everybody wants to walk the dogs. ONCE. But then they’re done. The heat, the humidity, the plain choreness of it is just kinda a buzzkill.

So, that first night, he and me are walking the hot mile and my brothers’ wine is sloshing out of his glass and tourons all along the way are offering refills and we’re laughing about whatever we drunk locals laugh about. Life’s good right?

Then shit got serious.

It was poop time. Ya know? For the dogs?

We were coming up on a young touron mother and her tiny touron kid playing way too close to the road.

Oh shit I said.

And, then, that’s exactly what Cutter did. He pooped right in front of them.

I whipped out a plastic bag and grabbed the turds but it was too late. Touron Mommy and touron baby were scampering away, horrified.

I felt bad, but the dogs jerked me back into walking them, snuffling each other like they were sharing some kinda secret joke.

Are they giggling? my brother asked.

I sighed.

More like snickering I said.

He stopped, wine sloshing every whichaway. No they’re NOT he said.

Yeah, they are. I said. They have trouble with some sounds ’cause they don’t have any lips. I said. And they like to poop where it’ll embarrass me the most. I said.

Just then, Cutter and Tug, straining at their end of the leash, looked back at us and grinned their stupid dog grins before snuffling one another again.

NO they DON’T he said, struggling with the idea.

I looked at him and shrugged and Cutter and Tug chuckled.