Standing in the freezing rain this morning, waiting for the dog to find just the right patch of slush on which to relieve myself, I had a realization: The dog hates me. He wants me to suffer. As if picking up his poop while holding back mine isn't bad enough,he makes me stand for ten minutes in soggy shoes with thirty-three degree rain rolling down my neck. What could he possibly be looking for? All the other dogs' scents have been covered in rain and snow. It is an olfactory void.
He must resent that he is a creature with the brain power of a two year-old child, and I am possessed of the most amazing thinking thing on the planet. Still, I'm picking up his crap, while he waits for me to let him back into the apartment, inside of which, he will spend the rest of his day sleeping and preserving his tiny intellect. He sure does make the most of what he's got. You have to give him that.
Thanks for humoring me.
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