Pete the Aussie has a serious dislike for and fear of fireworks and gunfire. And he has exceptionally good hearing, considering that Ruthie insists on barking in his ears.
So when it came time to get up and go outside Sunday morning, poor old deaf Ruthie charged out into the yard. Pete, however, refused to go outside because he had heard the sound of hunters firing shotguns in the distance. I tried to drag him to the back door, but he pulled away and tried to hide under our bed.
I decided to humor him and closed the back door, got out his leash and took him out through the front door without resistance. He trotted merrily down the driveway with me as I walked to the paper tube, extracted the Sunday paper and tucked it under my arm. He also seemed calm when I walked him back past the garage door to the gate to the fenced back yard. I unclipped the leash and he strolled off to do his business.
I went inside through the back door and immediately noticed I had stepped in dog poop and it was embedded in the cleats of my left hiking shoe.
I changed shoes and put the offending shoe on the back porch to dry for a couple of days.
I retrieved it this afternoon, cleaned it as well as I could with a stick from the yard, and headed in to town with the aim of walking off the remainder.
Which is why, as I sit here at Seattle Grind with my netbook and coffee, I smell faintly of dogshit.
How embarrassing.
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