Just Taking A Little Walk

OK, so yesterday Melissa and I didn't get to take our traditional daily long-walk when she's home that always includes all manner of theological banter until way late in the afternoon. Big mistake. Border Collie's can't wait to get their daily exercise until 5:00 PM. By that time their obsessive compulsive disorder has overrun their people-pleasing demeanors and they are like walking a forty-pound squirrel on a leash while it's raining acorns. Star does just fine on a walk...unless there is one iota of external stimuli. Like a person walking by. Or a car passing. Or a bird tweeting. At which point, she begins her raw rendition of the canine spastic zigzag. I have never once said, "Heel!" to Star without prefacing it with, "Oh, no."

Just about the time the theological pot thickened and Melissa and I were perhaps taking ourselves a tad too seriously, Star needed to...well...you know. Not number one. "Hold up," I said to Melissa while I waited until Star made a deposit in at least four different spots including the sidewalk. So, I held tight to the leash while pulling the black plastic bag out of my back pocket with one hand. Yes, I am a rule keeper. Keith always has all sorts of ideas what to do with it besides bag it but I refuse to act like I'm listening to whose porch he wants to put it on and only on rarest occasion fail to stifle a grin. He's awful.

"OK, Honey, go ahead." So Melissa picked up the doctrinal treatment where she'd left off and we got back in step. Only it was admittedly a bit more awkward with the heavy black bag dangling in my right hand. And it was an eternity to the next trash bin. Then she saw it. Star, that is. A bald dude with kind of a paunchy stomach (I'm visual. I need you to picture it) who looked to be in his late thirties and like he may not have had a girlfriend since '73, walking some variety of a bull dog. No, not just walking. Training. He'd take about four steps then halt the dog and give it a treat. For crying out loud, man! Get on with it!

Then they got about five feet from us. It was more than Star could take. Off she went. Me behind her. Legs flying. Not hers. Bag now swinging. Jostling. Smacking me on right shoulder. Left shoulder. Upper arm. Lower arm. Trying to hit Star with bag. Miss dog. Spill part of bag.

By the time we recovered, Melissa could no longer remember what she was talking about. All she knew was that "something stinks."

I think it was me.