So, I took the dog for a walk the other day. I had to go pick up dinner, and it was a little far for Lucy to walk, so I brought a kid-carrier on my chest. With kid comes diaper bag—I sport a subtle and understated red little number which works well with many of my outfits. I was feeling very multi-tasky. Gettin’ stuff done while the wifey did her sit-up thing at a pilates class.
Things were going smoothly, until they weren’t. I was returning home, and when I got to the middle of the busiest intersection in town I suddenly felt a tug on the leash. My dog, Alvin, is a real sniffer, so I figured he was just checking out the scene. Wrong. I turned back to find bent, quivering legs—poop position.
Me: Whoawhoawhoa—buddy—hang on. Not here.
He could have gone 10 paces earlier in the plot of grass. He could have pinched it 10 paces further when I would have been out of the street—but no. He was ready to do the doo-doo right there. Lucy’s laughing. So is the minivan filled with kids waiting for me to cross. The driver actually took the time to reach over her kid and roll down the manuel window to let me know that she and her kid thought this was a very funny moment in my day, and not to worry because she’d wait.
I thanked her for noticing without a bit of sarcasm.
Upon bending over to pick up said dookie, dinner falls out of my diaper bag. Lucy laughs more. I do not. But then things did get funny. After recollecting my now street-flavored dinner, I bent over once again to pick up the dookie. Lucy shoots me a worried look from the chest harness, grabs the straps and says, “Don’t drop me in the poop daddy.” Her concern was warranted. I had just dropped the dinner remarkably close to the doodie, and now her face was maybe eight inches from the dog logs. Then Lucy came within whiff distance. Her eyes closed tightly, her mouth opened and for a second—I thought she might barf. Instead, she did a little gag barf—and because I’m a dickhead I laughed
Lucy: That’s stinky daddy.
Me: I know. Poopy is stinky. Just like yours.
Lucy (pause): “You got some poop on your hand.”
Ever poop paranoid, I went in for a closer inspection of my hand. Much like the guy that pours his drink out when asked what time it is, I brought a stank ass bag of shit within a few centimeters of my face … gagged.
Lucy (laughing): That’s stinky daddy.
I’m not saying she’s an evil Jedi genius—but on this occasion, I have to give her props.
Good one Lucy—you got me.
— The Big Avocado.