Finally I present to you a whole entry dedicated to poop and pooping process. Some of you might ask what took you so long? given my unusual fondness for discussing it. Well, I’m going to make up for it by writing a shit load – a whole series about poop. This is the first installment of the series, starting with Foster, … of course.

A few years ago when Foster first came, he hated pooping. It took away from his precious playing time – read annoying Brandy time. Why waste time relieving himself when he can “play”? So he held it. I could always see he had to go, circling that perfect spot, or sometimes scooting around on his butt, but he held it until he absofuckinglutely had to go.

Not only that, he couldn’t wait until he finished pooping… naturally. So he would break his pooping stance with the poop that still not completely cleared its rightful passage to be born, and try to run and play. Of course he would realize the poop is still hanging out of his butt, and would start walking funny, like he had some turd sticking out of his butt, which was indeed the case here, and we ALL know how them dogs freak out when a piece of turd hanging out bounces against their precious bum! Right? Especially when that said piece of turd is hanging by a thread of grass he chomped on earlier? Then he’d assume the position again reluctantly and start pushing again. Repeat this process two or three times, and that’s how he used to poop (I’ll discuss his appetite for fresh poop later in another entry), or give birth to his poopage – have you noticed that his pooping process used to be remarkably similar to that of birthing? This process made poop scooping chore very interesting (read frustrating) for me since I would have to try to follow his track to pick up any unfortunate piece of poop that fell down haphazardly while he was running with it sticking out of his butt. And try to do that at night with a flash light.

Now that he seems to have understood Einstein’s theory of relativity and accepted that time doesn’t exist, he no longer holds his poop. Nevertheless, after he’s done, he very cautiously breaks his pooping stance, in stages, and walk a couple of steps gingerly, still crouched ready to push if needed, as if he still has turd hanging out of his butt, which is rarely the case any more unless he has munched on an inordinate amount of grass, to make absolutely certain he doesn’t have anything that might bounce off his butt. And then he takes off as if his life depended upon it. For somebody like myself who really does fart to amuse herself when left by herself, it provides me with boundless amusement. And people shake their heads and ask how I live without TV?