Open Letter to That Guy Who Yelled About Dog Poop

Dear Sir,

You and I met just a few short weeks ago, I’m sure you remember me. I’m the small, child

Here is my dog. Not being crappy.
Here is my dog, not being crappy.

-like human you sassed unnecessarily on a street corner whilst my dog tried simultaneously to take a dump and also intimidate the crap out of your dog.

It was a cold evening, and I saw you long before you saw us. I coaxed my dog along, trying to keep ahead of you so as to avoid a doggy tantrum. However, my dog is an asshole sometimes and enjoys putting me in extremely awkward positions. He also enjoys running his hind feet through his own feces, but we’ll get to that. All of these things are why he chose the precise moment when we were about to cross the street to go poop. So here we are, fated to meet, as my dog awkwardly hovers his ass above the ground in shame while also trying to be all tough and scary. In itself, this is difficult. I think he knew that he looked pretty stupid because he was particularly snarly. Either that, or he had some intuitive dog sense that you might be an asshole.

You continued your approach, blind to the obvious clusterfuck that was about to go down. You and your dog approached just as I was yanking my dog away from his own defecation and holding the bright blue disposal baggie in my other hand. He growled at you and I held him back, you looked at me and said, in what I’m sure was your politest tone: “You’re not gonna pick that up?”

I stammered my reply, something along the lines of “He’s not good with other dogs” or some other such pansy garbage. What I meant to say was “Whaddaya think the bag is for, asshole?” But I didn’t say that, because I’m a polite human who knows what is and is not acceptable to say to people in society. Except not really, because I’m writing you an open letter on the internet so really I’m no better than you are. In my defense, I have writer’s block right now and it’s not the weekend yet so I can’t just get drunk and talk about baby chameleons or spirit animals.

I wonder if perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. You see, my dog lacks some basic social skills –something you and he have in common, apparently. He hasn’t quite learned that other dogs don’t want to murder him, and you haven’t learned how to appropriately speak to strangers. I’m sure there’s a chance (a pretty good one, actually) that I am grossly overreacting to such a slight. But it’s the principle of the thing, Guy Who Yelled at Me. You can’t just go around yelling at people who haven’t even done anything. And that is why I’m telling the internet that something must have crawled up your tail pipe and died. Because now we’re cool. Unless you yell at me about some other bullshit thing I didn’t do. In which case, you’re dead to me. Wait…you’re already dead to me.

OK, so I don’t really understand how to write an open letter. Or any sort of letter, really. Maybe you were just having a bad day or you lost a toe due to some poison infested dog poop, I don’t really know. I’m sorry I wrote about you on the internet. But maybe let’s all just not yell at each other for stuff, OK?

Sincerely,

Fully Grown Adult Woman Who Always Picks Up Her Dog’s Gnarly Business

PS: the dog we need to worry about is a horse-dog hybrid

I’ve made this conclusion based upon the droppings I have spotted throughout the neighbourhood. Clearly, this is no ordinary dog. This is a dog the size of a small horse, probably with horse-sized pointy teeth. I don’t know what sort of person brought this creature into existence, but I think it goes without saying that the whole thing is messed up.

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