My typically calm, quiet, sweet dog, was being crazy. Jumping, nudging my hand, running in circles. I was at work, where I typically bring her a few times a week, so I figured she needed to go to the bathroom. When the usual “stand outside and let her pee” trick didn’t work, I hooked her up to her leash and decided to walk the city block with her to see if she needed to let off a little energy.

I even ran back inside to grab a poop bag. I typically forget this step and feel like an asshole when she poops on one of the business’s front lawns and I just scurry away and hope no one notices.

Sure enough, about a block away she takes the biggest, steamiest dump I’ve ever seen. It was so diarrhea-like that it resembled jello. Typically, I wouldn’t scoop this one. How CAN you? But OF COURSE someone in the building she was crapping in front of was at the window, watching, lips pursed and daring me NOT to scoop it up.

Considering this was Lily’s usual poop spot, I feel as though this person must have seen me on the days I forgot the poop bag. Oops.

Shit. I now needed to pick up gooey shit.

I fumbled with the poop bag, creating a poop-scoop-mitten (as you do) and proceeded to try and scoop up whatever I could, while also trying my damnedest not to gag. I also had to frantically shoo my dog away from the poo goo, as her butt flap fur was grazing the mound and I feared it would become saturated with shit.

To my absolute horror, there was simply too much poop. Too much poop for the poop scoop mitten. Before I could prevent it, an enormous smear of shit suddenly warmed my palm.

So now I was a block from work, hand covered in shit, and trying desperately not to breathe in through my nose lest I vomit  all over myself and make the situation that much more dire.

Thankfully, across the street, on the edge of a yuppie-ish shopping plaza, was the random famous tree (Treaty Oak) I’d instagramed the day before that strangely housed a doggie poop station next to its protected mini-park. I jay-walked as fast as my little legs could carry me threw the shitbag into the trash. I grabbed three other poop scoop bags and, gagging all the way, cleaned the majority of the extra crap off my hand.

Since this is downtown Austin, obviously this is the time a random passing vagrant decides to yell some conversation at me.

“IT IS DOG DAY!” he says. I notice that he is a fairly clean vagrant, despite the long and scraggily hair dangling from his baseball cap, and I wonder if he is perhaps just–“THIRTEEN DOGS TODAY!”–slightly off?

I let out the half hearted laugh of a woman walking by herself with a dog tugging at the leash who, just moments ago, was covered in shit. I thought it was rather polite.

“YOU just don’t want to talk to ME because I am CRAZY!” he says, eyes squinted. “I don’t blame ya!”

I begin to make my way to the cross walk where a small group of people are standing. They look like they just lunched at Whole Foods and entertained themselves by buying yuppies supplies at the famous tree park shopping plaza. I mutter something about needing to get back to work, eyes on the crosswalk ahead.

“What kind of dog is he!” he barks at me.

“Oh, :half hearted poo laugh: she’s just a mutt!” The light has turned! I must get to the intersection!

Crazy man takes offense to this, telling me if anyone else called my dog a mutt, I’d be mad at them. “I don’t understand why EVERYBODY ALWAYS SAYS THAT!!”

“I mean she’s a mix, okay?” I have made it to the crosswalk! I book it, nearly running into a large man with a ponytail.

“Well, she is beautiful!” says the vagrant, thankfully walking in the opposite direction. His voice softer now, I wonder if I should thank him for the compliment. I don’t.

Instead of continuing my course, I follow ponytail in case vagrant follows. Vagrant does not follow, but my dog decides she REALLY wants to follow ponytail and tugs at the leash, nearly pulling me over.

Once back in the office, I take the dog into the bathroom so that I can fully wash the last of the crap off my hands, and check her butt flaps for extra poo. Apparently, we will add Public Bathrooms to the List of Things Lily is Scared Of. She immediately fell to the floor and wouldn’t let me pull her into the large handicapped bathroom with the private sink.

I finally convince her the bathroom is not terrifying, and to follow me in. While I am washing my hands, she crawls under the door and I find her stretched out under the other two stalls, looking terrified.

“This is where I go when I leave the office and you always want to follow me,” I tell her, trying to be patient, “this is where you have always wanted to go! You are finally here! Be happy!”

I pull her back and attempt to check for poo, but she falls to the floor again with her tail between her legs.

Sigh.

When I open the door to leave, she books it to the other side of the bathroom. I tug her back and we exit, and she begins to go nuts again. Back in my office, she licks at an empty water dish.

“You… you’re thirsty? Water?” She runs in a circle.

I fill the bowl, feeling defeated about the entire situation, wondering if water was what she wanted all along.