Untitled Too (or, The Shame of Being A Poet)

I really did not want to go out as my face felt folded in on itself and my hair was a mess thanks to all the split ends but the dog needed his walk. He sat silent in the hall, snout pointed at the door. I took down his lead and he stood, unsteady.

It was almost midnight and the air was sharp with frost. We didn’t have to go far before he squatted in the middle of the pavement and prepared to void his bowels. I tried to wriggle deeper into the fur-lined hood of my coat as little knives of cold jabbed at my ears and neck. The dog was taking his time, his old guts could hardly cope with the biscuits I bought him. I knew I should change brand, but I liked the big, bargain bags, and the way they sealed shut for extra freshness. His back legs and tail trembled with the strain and I wondered how long he had left to live.

Just then, to my dismay, I heard someone walking towards me. I decided to keep my head down, to avoid eye contact, yet at the last moment I glanced up, just in time to catch the look of revulsion and scorn from the woman as she passed by.

The dog managed to produce a dollop of tawny matter, staggered forward a few steps, and dropped some more. Satisfied he was finished, I tugged on the lead and went home. I don’t bother with plastic bags and disposal. The very idea of picking up the stuff, warm and soft, disgusts me to the core.

Next morning, on my way to the shop, I noticed that someone had already trodden in the mess. Slipped in it, by the look of things, a skidded heel had streaked it across the pavement. Good, I thought, why should I be the only one to suffer?