Here’s some photos:

where's the car

My car is under there someplace.

My back driveway

More on page two…

My dog only does his business on my lawn. There’s a nice park across the street where we play frisbee, but under no circumstances does he consider it the proper place to poop, and he will actually stop playing mid-stride to run home.

The other day, this happened. Bandit grabbed the frisbee, took off running to the yard. “Gotta go,” I thought to myself. “What’s wrong with all this lovely dead brown grass here? The other dogs do it here!”

Anyway, he crawls through the hedge, drops his frisbee, takes one step forward and assumes the position. One step forward places the frisbee at the wrong end, in case you’re not paying attention.

I see this happening, and I stand on the back deck watching the events unfold, snickering.

He finishes up, does the doggy equivalent of wiping (kick some dead grass at the spoils) and runs towards me.

“Where’s your frisbee, Bandit?” Being a dog, he looks at me, wags his tail and heads back to pick it up. Pleasing the human can be a dog’s greatest pleasure and honour.

“WAIT A MINUTE…” The dog looks at me with a huge question mark of horror. “Someone shit on my frisbee!” He is completely amazed at this disgusting turn of events. Just a minute ago, the frisbee was not in this condition. “Who would do this? When did this happen? How could this happen?”

Okay, so the dog didn’t really talk, but the words were there in body language.

It was hilarious watching him try to pick it up to bring it to me (and thank God he never did do it) without actually touching the frisbee. In the end, his decision was to abandon it, and I had to go get it myself.

By the way, the frisbee had a bleach bath, and is still in use.