The following is an e-mail I sent to a few beloved people over two years ago, regarding my heaven-sent Standard Poodle, Toby, whom I had taken in three weeks after I had to put Lucy to sleep. When I wrote this, I had had Toby for less than three months.
October 16, 2021
GAH!! ::flailing::
At around 0415, I wake up to Toby scrambling in his crate, so I got him out to pee. Get outside, start toward the street--- Toby freezes, then starts barking his head off at poor Levi, my kind, long-suffering neighbor, who's just having a morning drag before work. I call an apology as I drag Toby in the other direction. Toby starts pulling me toward Brittany's, and finally pees there.
But Levi is returning to his apartment next door to Brittany, so I start Toby along the far edge of the playground, and Toby is happy to comply... because now he has to poop.
In the dark.
In front of the manager's.
And I don't have his bags with me.
And Toby is a wandering pooper.
So I patiently wait for him to finish dropping his multiple loads in a circle around me, thinking longingly of my own toilet, which I *should* have used before relieving the dawg.
And then Toby starts eating grass.
A LOT of grass.
And it becomes painfully obvious to me that Toby's tummy is finally reacting to the bacon grease (and probably several ancient pieces of bacon that had been tossed with it) which I'd found him devouring from the open trash bag I'd inadvertently left out from Thursday's kitchen purge.
And I won't be able to leave him loose in my home in order to empty my bladder or while I go pick up his poop.
So I drag him home, letting him eat as we go along, but having to pull him most of the way because I *really* need to go now, and I still need to pick up his droppings before the manager comes out to see it.
I finally get inside, grab some bags, then head back out to retrieve crap. I'm practically doing the pee-pee dance of my youth as I desperately search over a four-foot-diameter area for the excrement, which to my delight I discover is the same size and color of the fallen leaves. The last piece I discover by stepping on it. ::facepalm:: Fortunately, the grass is nice and wet (yay, rain!), so I can easily wipe my thongs clean.
By this time, Toby has figured out that I am NOT happy with him pulling at his leash, and is finally *not* trying to reach the grass furthest from my search area. In return, I allow him to eat a few more nibbles before we return inside. I tie a knot in the poop bag before depositing it in the trash barrel at the community center, then rush Toby home, permitting a little more grass-noshing before bringing hm inside.
I remove his leash, then start upstairs, softly calling him as I round the corner. He scrambles up the steps, pushing past me to reach the top first. I reach out and scritch his neck, then! grasp his collar and say, "Bed." Fortunately, he doesn't fight me and walks right into his crate. I latch it tightly, tell him, "Go sleep," then hurry to the bathroom next door.
Luckily, two things:
1) Toby doesn't bark in his kennel when he knows I'm in the bathroom.
2) Toby did not throw up in his crate as I half suspected he might.
Let's hope we don't have another night like this!
