A couple weeks ago, Tina was on poop and pee patrol with Talulah. It was the morning shift. I take the night shift and we split any other potty breaks, as the crazy dog owners say.
During the winter, we let Lu pee inside our front gate. Otherwise, when there’s not snow on the ground, it’s off limits to preserve any vegetation our neighbors plant.
Outside the gate, we have many passers by. One in particular is a 45-ish-year-old dog walker, who appears perpetually disheveled as if last night was a great night … alone … in his garden floor apartment.
As he neared our front yard with three dogs in tow, Tina said he stopped, looked down at the dogs with two leads in one hand and one lead in the other. To the dogs, he says, “Guys, do you want to cross the street? Guys … guys! Do you want … Do you wanna cross the street? Guys … Guys!”
Oddly enough, Tina didn’t hear any one of the dogs reply, “Yes, master dogwalker. You’re wisdom exceeds our pathetic intellect. We would like to cross the street. Guide us, oh wise one.”
Now, whenever we talk to Talulah or Zoe in a way that seems a little too much as if they understand a goddamn word we’re saying, one of us says, “Guys, do you wanna cross the street? Guys? Do you want to cross the street?”
Well, do you?