Walking my greyhounds the other day, I stumbled into one of those sublime moments that you file away and retrieve for personal merriment, or whenever someone starts up about how cute, smart or clever their pet might be.
It’s damp, chilly and nearing twilight on a late winter afternoon as we round a corner near the middle of our route near the high school, and Chatterbox pulls up and assumes the dump position just off the sidewalk.
I reach into my pocket for a plastic bag, as I’m usually quite fastidious about picking up after my own dogs in public. But not this time.
Didn’t see it before, but Chatterbox had squatted over a lost glove lying palm-side up in the grass and left her deposit directly on center. Could not have sculpted a more elegant tower myself with can of chocolate whipped topping. Held like a trophy. Wide base uniformly tapering to a twist at the top.
It was a work of art. Call it greyhound graffiti. A turd in the hand. Bansky outside the bag.
I left it for the world to see. Came back the next day with my camera, but it had rained and the tower had turned to oatmeal.
Didn’t scoop that time either. Hey, someone might still be looking for their glove!
Ransom Man 