Shitting on the wrong spot
TUESDAY, April 13 – Elsa usually poops in the same places. On the bridge, on a stretch of grass near the boat, and always on entering the park. This time she opted for the zebra crossing where Jenn had been knocked down. It was a huge sausage of a turd and she took her time. I had no choice but to watch and wait until she was finished. The adept movement of my hand, encased in blue plastic, revealed my experience with chores like this, but behind the routine procedure there was a paralyzing nervousness on a spot where thirteen seconds seemed like an eternity. Calm didn’t return until we reached the other side.
Diary of a Widower 