Dogshit

A turd on the sidewalk, some carnal core-sample, containing an entire rat carcass suspended within the tube, steamed in the morning air. Even more surprising than its appearance, was its size. It was damned near as big as a salami!

Digmond, walking his one-eared Jack Russell Terrier, paused and looked down at the thing. Could that have come from Squeeker? There’s no way! He couldn’t be sure, though. He rarely watched Squeeker’s gifts actually exit the dog. Although Digmond carried plenty of doo-bags, this was one Tootsie Roll he would leave to fend for itself.

For a while, things seemed okay. Small, brown, easy to pick up, easy to bag. Then one day, as he reached for a stool, wearing his requisite blue rubber gloves, Digmond discovered a new anomaly. Enwrapped into the nugget, was a jr. high school wallet-size photo of himself, about midway through the fecal twig, similar to a cigar band.

Digmond was aghast. Seeing himself looking up from the sidewalk as a boy, a stinking pig in a blanket, set him to chills. He hadn’t seen that picture in years.

The next morning, as Squeeker did his doggie business, he looked up and whimpered with frightened, apologetic yearning. Digmond couldn’t believe his eyes. Dangling from Squeeker’s asterisk, were Digmond’s house keys. He feverishly checked his pockets. Nothing, but a Baggie full of Baggies, two rubber gloves and a dog biscuit, which he threw in anger.

As Squeeker ran after the treat, Digmond’s caramel coated key chain popped out and hit the cement tinkling. Digmond could not contain himself, and screaming, ran to and kicked Squeeker—long time doggy chum and canine companion—squarely in the gut. "WHAT THE FUCK!" he spat, feeling like a complete doodle.

From then on, Digmond sat staring at Sqeeker in their small apartment…called in his vacation/sick leave at Kinko’s, and did nothing but observe Squeeker, 19 hours a day, and chained him to the bed when he slept. They both ate only steak and drank nothing but water.

Each day, Squeeker would deposit the most amazing feces Digmond had ever encountered. Old concert tickets. Rickie Lee Jones CD’s. Framed pictures of old girlfriends. Bottles of home-brew. A slice of birthday cake. A collectable Lance Link Secret Chimp lunchbox. A transistor radio. Even a pair of bellbottom Levi’s he’d worn as a teen. This was impossible. Squeeker was little more than a year old, and Digmond had thrown away or lost most of the articles long before Squeeker was even born!

Digmond began bringing along big black garbage bags, to collect the expelled items.

On the final day, Digmond crouched behind Squeeker’s caboose, waiting for something interesting, and what he saw caused his own bowels to erupt. On the corner of Starch Street & Chink, Digmond saw his own head emerging from the tiny dog, followed by his entire body. Finding himself flopping upon the park grass, Digmond sobbed mutely as he lay dying.

Squeeker howled, as any dog would, having crapped out his master, and ran un-tetherd and bleeding into City Park. At that moment, Digmond decided he should have rescued a cat from the shelter, instead of that damned dog, while he dried black in the hot summer sun.xxx