Going to the dogs

My new block has the added bonus of a regular pile of dog crap, which seems to reoccur roughly at the same spot on the sidewalk, sometimes closer to the curb, sometimes to the front stoops of the buildings alongside it. Coupled with the uneven sidewalk slates with whose pattern I've yet to become familiar, it makes walking a head-down affair.

This morning, out for an early coffee run, I noticed an elderly woman in front of me walking two dogs, rather large terrier-types. (My dog breed knowledge is limited to those owned, or once owned, by members of my family. My car model knowledge is infinitely worse, having never owned a car and often unable to tell you the color of a family member's vehicle even as I'm sitting in it.) (Well, at night, between navy and black.) One dog was standing, somewhat crouched, a fresh pile between his hind legs. While I didn't actually see him deposit it, the way in which he staggered away and turned back to look at it led me to believe it was his own. The woman tugged at his leash and kept walking.

As I passed her, I wondered how much of a dirty look I could give or if I'd have the balls to say something. But then she smiled and said cheerily, "Good morning" and all I could do was mumble, "Good morning" back. I am a wimp.