Canadian winter has finally arrived in Montreal. When one factors in the wind chill (and Canadians do factor in the wind chill, as it accounts for 73.5 percent of our conversational matter), it is -31 C this morning. For my American readers, that is -23.8 F. While it is not yet the kind of weather that will freeze unexposed skin on contact, it is not the kind of day that you want to hang about outside doing nothing. Which makes it a bad day to have a dog.
Deciding where to eliminate seems effortless to other canines. Not so our Captain Jack Sparrow, the tenacious and extremely masculine Bichon Frise. Deciding where to eliminate for Jack is a weighty intellectual matter fraught with controversy. He sniffs. He circles. He sniffs again. He chooses another spot and circles again, sniffing.
This morning, he went through four potential poop spots. The first one had insufficient depth– he cannot defecate in a place that I will not have to plunge my ungloved, plastic wrapped hand into at least 5 cm of snow. The second one had some strange garbage next to it. (It looked like the remnants of a wig, but I really didn’t want to know.) The third one was rejected out of hand for no reason that I could establish. The fourth looked really promising– deep snow I would have to wade through for the pick-up, strong likelihood of me stepping on frozen turds along the way, room to pace back and forth to tamp down the snow. And then some guy walked by to distract him, and we had to move on. At this point, I lost it and yelled, “For the love of Jesus, will you just SHIT already!”
Yes, a low moment for me. Even atheists ought not to invoke the name of the Christian messiah to get their dogs to crap. As penance, I’m going to shave off a half-point from the Apocalypse. Forgive me, Humanity.
The Apocalypse: 24