I guess you could it of an offshoot of the whole butt-sniffing thing. The way us humans get all grossed out when a dog goes about his business. Because for us, taking a dump is something private, almost shameful. What you do behind closed doors. But for a dog? Number one is like his calling card, I piss therefore I am, and every tree, every hydrant he stops at, it’s like some message board. And number two? When a cat goes, he’s got to bury it, like it’s something bad. While a dog, he just squats, drops, and goes on his merry way. Nothing to see, folks, nothing to see. Keep it moving along.
Now if you’re the human he’s dragging behind, and you’ve got to deal with the mess, sure, you might get a little resentful after a while. I know I do. But what you’ve got to remember is, dogs keep it simple. Number one, number two. While all of us, Homo sapiens, Lords of the Earth, we’ve taken it one step further.
We’ve got number three.
And what is number three, you might ask? Just take a look around you. Number three is the sidewalk you’re standing on. The candy wrapper there in the gutter. The smell of exhaust, the honk of some horn, the blinking sign that says ‘don’t walk’. Number three is the thing the keeps you alive, the thing that will finally kill you, and long after the last of us finally croaks, it’ll still be hanging on. Grey, drab and ugly.
But wait. What’s that, scooting along through the rubble? And what’s he suddenly stopping for? Oh. That. Hard to believe we once got so bent out of shape, over something so simple, so stupid. Hard to believe all our acts, all our deeds, mean less than a little number two.