3 Feet Away

I stepped out onto the back porch with my parent’s dog, Ralph, who needed to be let out. I had a cigarette in one hand, just begging to be lit and smoked, and a cup of coffee in the other hand. The morning was the perfect slice of porage; not too hot, not too cold. Sitting down, I lit the cigarette and sipped my coffee which, just like the morning, was not too hot, not too cold. It was perfect for enjoying and slamming down. Ralph was wandering around trying to find his spot to take care of business.

I pulled out the cell phone and started reading the Google News app while Ralph searched. He managed to find a corner of the fenced yard to take a pee. Leg up and a sense of relief on his face, part one was complete. Now he began the hunt for the perfect spot to drop a duece.

With my head buried in the news, I caught Ralph in my peripheral, he was three feet away from me, hunching into the pooping position. He looked like the Chrysler Crossfire. I looked at him, he looked at me and let one loose. “Really, right there?”, I asked him. He just gave me a look as though he was saying, “Yep, right here. Deal with it.”

No longer did the coffee taste right, nor my cigarette. There was an additional aroma permiating. I clicked off the phone, abruptly stubbed out the cigarette and emptied my coffee onto the grass. Standing up, I looked over at Ralph, who was proudly inspecting the turd he just layed, and I just shook my head and “grrrr’d,” at him. That “just right” day had come to an abrupt end seven minutes into the declaration. All it took was a poop, three feet away.