Playground, frosty morning, not particularly related to the story.
Lately someone has been walking a dog down our street and letting the dog poop on the sidewalk. Our suburban neighbourhood has many dog owners, and many fine dogs, and almost all the owners adhere to social contract (and law) and scoop the poop for which they are legally responsible. But now a maverick, as yet unidentified, has moved in.
Judging by various visible parameters (diameter, color, composition), all the offending poop extrudes from the same dog, a mid-sized, kibble-fed animal.
One house down, it’s on the left. Two houses down, it’s on the right. Tricky.
Plus there are the scattered imprints from missteps of the many children hurrying to and fro who failed to avoid the fresh deposits.
On the way back from the school a Mandarin-speaking mother was walking behind me with her 4-yr old daughter. I guessed that if they kept on as they were, the mother would step on the poop. So I stopped and turned to her and pointed at the poop, and said, “Look out for the poop.”
I was too urgent, perhaps. A worried look came over her. What was he saying? What was the problem? She nearly ran onto the poop. I almost had to hip-check her away from it.
“No no,” I said. “Poop!” I pointed.
“Oh, poop!” she said, in Mandarin.
That’s when her tiny daughter swarmed around her leg and stepped in the poop.