So we (me) are dog sitting for my folks for a few days. Rather than trucking across town several times a day to walk, water, and feed Sage, Sage is shacking up with us. It’s been a while since I’ve co-habited with Sage, or any dog for that matter. DH believes that dogs should be kept outside, as in “Beasts of the field belong in the field”, but he’s making an exception seeing as my folks kept Mo and Co for us while we were gallivanting around NYC.

I got Sage when she was a few weeks old and I was about three weeks away from heading off to college. Not perfect timing, but the circumstances were extenuating. The home where Sage came from had a sign in the yard proclaiming “Free Puppies” and my mom has seen it in her travels to pick me up from a job training. On the way home, we decide to stop and I kid you not, this house was straight out of “Overboard“, complete with the kid who talked like Pee-Wee Herman. Evidently the family Beagle had been left outside overnight and the neighborhood German Shepherd had his womanizing ways with her. Presto! Changeo! Free Puppies! Poor Sage was the last of the litter, the smallest of the litter, cowering behind their couch. We couldn’t leave her there, so we scooped her up and headed up with no dog supplies nor lie to give to my dad about what we were doing with a dog.

Fast forward through college, my first apartment, marriage to DH and our first and second homes. Sage has lived with my folks ever since. Technically, she’s my dog, but she lives with my parents, so she’s kind of their dog. I mean, at this point, if I even tried to make a switch and take her on full time, I doubt she’d go. When my parents dropped her off today, she cried at the front door.

Anyway, Sage is a member of the family and one of Mo’s favorite folk. All I can think is, “Sage, don’t die, not on my watch!” I mean, she is 84 years old after all, 14 in dog years. She is super sweet and super gentle. The girls love her and she’s a watch dog through and through.

So, I let her out this afternoon to do her business. She’s alternating sniffing every blade of grass and whizzing on every other blade of grass. She had eaten not fifteen minutes before, so I expected a poop thrown into the mix and was not disappointed; not entirely. I’m thinking, as my mom so thoroughly briefed me, mega dog bricks or something out a science experiment gone wrong. Nope, just one, golf-ball sized poop (bear with me, this is important). Okay, I can deal with that, seeing as I have to scoop that shit up.

The girls are inside playing, Sage is watching me from the porch as I mosey on into the grass with my paper towel. I’m thinking, “I’ll just scoop this up and toss it into the woods.” I mean, why would I take a plastic bag for one poop nugget and then throw it in the recycling? I might as well bring it inside and flush it, right? So, I scoop the poop, arch my arm back to throw and release. The poop flies through the air and before I can say “Oh shit!” it lands with a soft slap.

On. My. Neighbors. Roof.
(not yours K and C, the other side)

I couldn’t have landed it there if I had been aiming for it.

Note to self: When scooping poop, throw it away. . .in the trash can.