So there’s these three middle-aged women and an older guy out by the pool behind my apartment, and I walk past them with the dog on the way to my mailbox after getting home from work.
A little later, I’m down in the laundry room putting sheets in the washer when the guy walks through the door and asks if I own a schnauzer. Sure, sez I.
“Well she says that when you were down here your dog left a little deposit,” quoth he.
“No sir, I always bring a bag.” Point of fact, I do, and the dog didn’t crap anywhere near the spot he’s pointing to over on the sidewalk anyway. Not that she’d ever crap on the sidewalk, since she’s well trained to get off the pavement. Nope, my dog’s poop is safely tucked away in a plastic bag at the bottom of the garbage dumpster across the parking lot.
“Well you were the only one down here.”
“When?”
“Fifteen minutes ago.”
“Sir, I absolutely, positively guarantee that’s not my dog. I always bring a bag.”
“Well okay then.” He wanders back to their table.
So I finish doing the laundry stuff, but I have to walk past these people on the way back to the apartment. I’m pissed for the false accusation, so I just attempt to ignore them.
“Excuse me,” quoth my apparent accuser, as I’m already past them.
“Look, lady, that’s not my dog. I always bring a bag. And I use it.”
"Well . . . "
“Lady!” exclaims a companion.
“Yeah, I’m not a lady,” says the first. “I’m a middle aged dyke.”
I’m walking away.
“Call me dyke or lesbian or something, but not lady . . .”
Bitch! Smegma! Toad snot! Deluded idiot!
Of course, the worst thing is that I have to go past them again in five minutes to put my stuff in the dryer. They’d better not say one goddamn thing to me that doesn’t prominently feature the words “I’m sorry.”
