This is a post that could also be titled “Why The Artist is a better person than me”.
A while back, two years ago or so, someone upset me terribly. I wrote an extensive blog post about it which I am not going to link to here because I am over it. (if you believe that then there’s a fool born every minute). I am over it to the extent that I can now say hello in public or social situations instead of feeling for the gun that I used to own back in the old country and breaking out in a hot sweat.
To add insult to injury they bought a house four streets down from us but that was more about me screaming for protest sake that I don’t want them in my suburb than about actually running the risk of seeing them regularly.
So it happened to be that this morning The Artist took Koda for a walk. He fancies the dog as a bit of a goat and takes him cavorting on the rocks that run along the sea. Apparently someone did more carrying and someone else did less walking/climbing. The path takes them out at the bottom of the road of the house where my frenemies reside.
On approach, Koda started to tug on the lead and hit anchors. The Artist did not want to be stopping outside but as they were dead centre out front, my Koda parked and took the biggest dump he could muster. Right, Outside. THEIR, House. Gives the words “good dog” a whole new meaning.
Now had it been me I would have given Koda free reign at the puppy food for the weekend and a bag of liver treats. And left the dump where it was.
Not so The Artist. It seems the frenemies are renovating so the house is vacant and The Artist reckoned the only ones that would be punished, or would even see the dog’s good work were the builders. So he picked it up like a good citizen.
If he was creative he would have picked it up and put it in their post box because guaranteed the builders aren’t going in there but I know who definitely is. No, I’m not over it, not even close.
Love and light
p.s. I am going to get over this one day. Really I am.