Poopdog

I am not especially fond of hanging out in front of my house, but even if I look out the front window I can see the piles that Poopdog has left for us. We live on a hill, off a very busy street, so the kids are not allowed to play in the front yard very often anyway, but it still bugs me that this dog does his business in a place where it becomes my responsibility. His human never cleans up after him.

It must be kind of a crappy life for the dog, often alone in an apartment. He never goes for walks and has no yard to play in. His big thrill is pooping. The dog is smallish and very handsome. I have seen him from my front window, raising his leg to our tree then winding his way up the hill. He squats under the window and sees me looking at him. I look away, he does his thing and then he gives me this really apologetic, sad look, one eyebrow raised, head cocked to the side, tail down. He trots off to his human, who by now is making impatient noises, calling to him, “C’mon! Are you done?” He never calls the dog by name. His human never makes eye contact with us, just stands there on his porch whistling, pretending not to realize what is going on.

My two-year-old is the one who came up with Poopdog. She watches him from the window too, laughing when he makes his deposits. “Yuck Poopdog, HAHAHAHA, he is pooping!” I don’t think this makes it any easier on the dog.

“Come away from the window,” I tell her. I don’t want to wreck the only fun this dog ever has.