The pet-friendly hotel where we stay has a designated dog-walking area. I would often take them to the spot so they could do their business. One particular afternoon last week, I took them to the dog zone and noticed a man and woman watching me from their second-floor hotel balcony.
Just as Moose started pooping, Spike pulled his leash to the opposite extreme and proceeded to poop. I was standing there with my arms stretched to the limit in opposite directions! The couple watched.
Moose finished and I managed to switch her leash over to the hand that was holding Spike’s leash.'
|Where's the beach everyone's been talking about?|
As soon as Spike had finished, I bent down in my white t-shirt to pick up his mess with a plastic bag. His post-poop skidding routine had completely slipped my mind. I was hunched over and diligently reaching for the pile as the pieces of dirt zinging off his paws began hitting me in the face, chest and leg! The couple watched.
With two leashes in one hand and a bag of poop in the other, I couldn’t wipe my face, shirt or legs. As I picked up Moose’s mess, the man calmly leaned over the balcony and asked in a southern twang, “What breed are them there animals?”
Feeling like the featured goat in a clown routine, I told him they were West Highland Terriers, at which point he began telling me how his friend uses Westies to chase moles off his property.
Perhaps they laughed after I left, but they spoke with me as though we’d bumped into each other on a sidewalk. At least for the duration of the conversation, I didn’t feel like a dirt-splattered fool catering to two oblivious poop-churners.
Somehow, the man and woman had, most graciously, managed to suspend my reality.