He must be on some form of disability. Home all the time. He lives across the street and I see him come out of his house with a puppy behind him.
The man walks the puppy to the bank of grass growing on the curb. His pale gut hangs out of his tight and stained t-shirt.
“Come on, doggy,” he says. “Make poops.”
The dog looks innocently at the man. They stand that way for a few minutes, the man as vacant as the dog.
“Come on, make poops.”
The dog stares.
“Here,” the man says.
He pulls down his gray sweatpants, turns his buttocks to the road and squats. A turd slides out, landing on the shaggy grass.
“Do that,” he says to the dog.
The dog sniffs at the man’s feces, hunches his back, crouches, and lays one down.
“Good,” the man says. “Good dog. Good dog.” And he pats the dog on the head, feeding him something from his palm.
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