I've recently been tasked with walking my daughter's dog, a lanky chocolate labrador, so that he can do those things which a dog must do, without rendering the kitchen into a no-go zone. I'm only required if my daughter and husband's respective shifts mean that the dog is going to be incarcerated for the full day, but that's been happening a bit just lately, so the dog and I have been getting to know each other quite well.
Our route normally takes us past the Stately Home that dominates their village. Between the road and the pavement, there is a grass verge (as in the picture above) and this seems to be his favoured spot for defecation. The other day, he had just completed his morning movement and I was poised to clear the mess up. Not, I must admit, my favourite occupation of all time but, in the immortal words of Arthur Guiterman:
"No matter what we are and who, Some duties everyone must do:"
I couldn't, for the life of me, understand what would possess anyone to deliberately move closer to the scene of such devastation? Presumably, they were proposing to get out of the car at some point and this would, inevitably, involve the passenger stepping out onto the grass, exactly where the dog had just done his thing.