My dog shits in crosswalks. Well, to be honest, Fanny is not actually technically my dog. Fanny is a pug, half of a matched pair which belonged to my wife for 13 years before she met me. The other pug is Felix, who is pretty much the dumbest pug on the planet (for real – he loses his train of thought while pooping). Felix, though, as completely unable to learn as he is, knows enough to not shit in the crosswalk. Not our girl Fanny, who will circle and poop with great glee and purpose smack in the direct middle of the crosswalk as the DO NOT WALK hand angrily blinks red, cabs and dump trucks creeping eagerly forward in the expectation of the green light. I wonder where else she might decide to take a shit: on the deck of an aircraft carrier? On the Jersey Turnpike? During a walk on hot coals? I can only sense her demented pleasure as I scramble for the doody-bag in my pocket and scoop the poop up, flinging the pugs into my arms in one motion, and make for the safety of the corner while I cringe in expectation of the car horns. Nobody ever honks at me, but I never stop believing they will. I have, therefore, adopted a strategy. I will never, ever, ever start across a crosswalk unless I see the little WALK guy light up with my own eyes. This proves to me that I can outsmart a 13-year-old dog.
So fuck her. I win.
* Fanny and Felix died in 2013. R.I.P., guys.