Monday, December 29, 2014

Who Knows How She Knows?

All the dogs my family owned when I was growing up were outside dogs, with a giant, sun-hammered yard in which to do their business. It was my job to pick up the desiccated, hard little nuggets they left for me, but I hardly ever had to see the things get made.

So the strange divination that is required for a city dog to go is an entirely mysterious process to me. She noses around in various piles of leaves and near trees, around lampposts and gateposts, up and down blocks and blocks worth of sidewalks until she finds the magical spot, and even then she checks and double checks (her hindquarters all the while twitching into hunch in anticipation of what's to come), making absolutely sure she's got the precise square quarter-of-a-foot to do the deed she must do.

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