Today was a hard one.
I was walking Fizzy and Billy, trying to keep my balance as they both pulled in opposite directions, tripping over myself and dodging delivery men, small children and garbage cans along the way. Finally Billy found a desirable spot to go to the bathroom.
I steadied myself into a crouching-tiger type position, in order to keep hold of the dogs while picking up after them at the same time. And then it happened. Fizzy took off in a strong gait down the block. I wobbled momentarily, but soon, my growing thigh muscles (still sore from the "stairmaster-esque" daily routine of 5th floor walk up apartments) stabled my squat once more.
But Fizzy wasn't happy waiting for me to finish cleaning up after his friend. Through the corner of my eye, I could see the little bugger slowly retreating backwards as if to "wind up" for some amazing Olympic-like sprint. For a second, there was complete silence. I took this as an opportunity to continue my task. And then, mid-scoop, everything came crashing down. Like a shotgun, with all his might, Fizzy took off.
Unfortunately for him (and eventually for me), my jaws-of-life grip on his leash, and amazing cat-like reflexes repelled the little guy back into me -- more specifically, into the bag of poop I was holding. Which, in turn, flew (open side up) unto my newly cleaned jeans. It wasn't a direct hit, as much of a long smear.
For the next few minutes, I stood, open-mouthed, in complete amazement -- shifting my gaze from Fizzy, to my chocolate covered pant leg, and then back again. Occasionally, I would give Billy a look to see if he could provide any assurance or comfort. He couldn't. No one could. The fact was clear: I was covered in poo, and there was nobody to blame but myself.
I've decided that tomorrow, I'm going to wear plastic pants...and maybe carry a hose. No point in dressing nice anymore. If nothing else, I need to start bringing a camera. Whats the point of being covered in dogdoo, if no one will see it?