Gods and Gas

I think my dog has a serious problem with religion. Why else would he always choose as his pooping spot of choice, church yards? Back home in Florida he always poops down the street at the hippie church, and now here in Chicago he has decided that the best, and most attractive plot of land to take a crap on is the front yard of the Buddhist Temple. It’s not like he occasionally poops at the church or the temple. He always and without deviation poops in front of the church and the temple, and nowhere else. I have noticed that the Buddhist temple has a large statue of a woman in front of it and people leave offerings below her. Today it was fruit, and the other day somebody left a six pack of bottled water at her feet. Maybe Chandler is just offering up his steaming pile of crap to the Hindu god.

Chandler’s first offering to that god, Sid Hasta La Vista, or whatever her name is, was huge. That’s because he hadn’t taken a poop for over forty eight hours, the entire length of our drive to Chicago. The McDonald’s hamburgers we fed him in the car probably didn't help things, and that brings up another subject, road food. Mark’s notion of our ride up north included stopping at quaint mom and pop roadside diners, and sampling the local fare. Although I had reservations about a gay black man and a gay white man sauntering into various diners across the deep south, it did seem intriguing. Sadly we didn’t get to see how the Klan lives up close, because the actual reality is that you can’t take a wild, eighty pound dog into such places. No, our dining experience was a series of McDonald’s drive thrus, all of very even quality, meaning they were quick, and greasy. A by product of this situation was a car full of dog and human gas which Mark insisted was all Chandler and me, but I know better. Mark has simply perfected the art of the silent killer.