Where the Dogs Poo

 (With apologies to Shel Silverstein)

There is a place where the sidewalk ends and before the street begins.

My dogs know it well. They know it's every aroma, the special places. They know the spot that they must avoid because Cammie and Brody were there. Good enough to pee on, but not for the big job. That is further up the street. They know the absolute right bush to run to, the fence that they must mark, and the neighbor who won't appreciate them. What my dogs are looking for is the one place that will embarrass me the most. The one place where they will turn, and turn, and turn, until a turd pops forth. Where I will be standing with a bag over my hand while they squeeze the last bits of poo out, right in front of my crabby neighbor.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow.
And we'll go where the chalk-white poops from yesterday decompose.
For the dogs, they mark, and the dogs, they know.
The place where the sidewalk ends.

It ends in front of Mr. Crumb's house, and he doesn't like it.