I remember the day I took Mark up to Abandoned Pet Rescue to see the cute little puppy I had spied while walking the big dogs. Twice a week I would volunteer to walk dogs at APR and that meant I got first look at all the new dogs coming in. Chandler was the puppy's name, and he was one happy and playful little guy. That was over thirteen years ago. Chandler is now in his senior years. He has lumps, his breath smells bad, and his rear legs have weakened. To get him up and down the stairs to go outside, I have to put a sling under his rear area and carry that end down for him. It's not an easy task. Because of this Chandler is not always excited when I ask him if he would like to go out. In fact, he would rather not negotiate those stairs unless he has to. It might be twelve hours since he last went out and when I ask him if he has to go poopies, he just lays there on his side. Nothing moving but his eyes. Chandler will wait until the very last second because he can hold his bladder and sphincter for an impressive amount of time. The problem is when he hits the limits of his endurance. At that point he drags himself to his feet and wobbles over to me with a look of panic in his eyes. He did that to me the other day. He moved quickly into the living room with terror in his eyes and ran up to me.
"Quick Daddy, I gotta shit!!"
Is what his eyes were telling me. Meanwhile, from the other end of my beloved dog, turds were popping out one after another. Like a turd machine gun, all over the living room. So I slapped his sling under his rear end and we ran to the back door. I thought I had noted where every turd had landed, but I missed one. The one I stepped in. The one I stepped in and then ran through the house with it on the bottom of my shoe.
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