WARNING: This post contains pictures of me as a small child.
I always grew up with dogs as a kid which is, quite honestly, a bit of a surprise considering that my very first dog – a Pomeranian named ‘Suzy’ – was basically held captive by yours truly 4 hours of every day through the innovative use of reclining chair cushions and the super strength of a very fat kid.
I’m not sure what happened to Suzy but I assume whatever it was, it was self-inflicted in an attempt to flee a life of eternal Lazy Boy slavery.
Living in an inner city, it made sense to have a small dog because space is limited in a two-family home and small dogs are harder to hit in drive-by shootings.
The more you know.
So, of course, our next dog was a collie.
I don’t know why, either.
The dog’s name was ‘Timmy’ and he was handsome and ginormous and mostly stayed in our backyard in a dog house that my dad custom-made for him – probably trying to make up to him for the fact that the dog was now living in a yard roughly the size of a pee pad.
But Timmy was MAGIC.
Timmy could summon our neighbors at will by barking loudly and majestically at all hours of day and night. And then he would try to bite other children and sometimes hump them in an attempt to make leg-collie pups.
Good boy, Timmy. Goooood boy.
Then one day my friends and I came home and I peered over the stockade fence to say ‘hi’ to Timmy and that’s when we saw..
It was amazing.
It was gravity defying.
There…just beside Timmy and his dog house:
BUT LO! This was NOT just any poop, NO, I SAY! NO!
This poop was...
The poop was standing straight up like it was pointing to an airplane or was maybe pretending to be one of those Royal British guards or maybe even an early foreshadowing of the dawn of the Viagra age but if, you know, poop took it.
And there, Timmy stood next to his vertical turd (verti-turd?) with a look on his face like, ‘Yeah. See what I did right there? I pooped UPWARDS. Suck it.’
Like I said:
It was then that I noticed the SECOND piece of dog poop.
There, at the base of the upright piece of shit, was another piece lying prone…deftly forming the letter, “L.”
That’s when the light bulb went off because, you see:
My last name is ‘Lacroix.’
Me: “I think he’s trying to spell our last name!”
YES. I was convinced that somehow during the course of his stay with us, he had not ONLY learned the family surname but ALSO discovered how to write the alphabet and – using this knowledge – began rigorously training his sphincter muscles to begin crafting his own fecal matter in an attempt to communicate with us.
I was sure that, if given enough time, he would not ONLY spell his name but also be able to converse with humans in the grossest way possible. It was like “Charlotte’s Web” but with less spiders and more dog shit.
This was truly a miracle.
Then my friend threw a tennis ball and knocked it over.
I guess we’ll never know what he was trying to say because he never did it again and shortly after went to live on a farm.
I wonder if he ever met that pig, Wilbur.
They would have gotten along swimmingly.