It's four am, I stand perched in a pair of Danska's, bare Irish legs, wrapped in a fleece blanket covered in dalmations and fire hydrants. Two police cars zoom quietly by in the night and I pause to think of what I must look like with my stick legs, boxers, Boston Red Sox tee and wrapped in a blanket. I imagine similar to what people look like who awake in the night to their home on fire. No time for appearances. And yet the apartment building is not on fire. At my feet a seven and a half week old labrador lays on the grass attempting to eat cigarette butts. "No Orion! Would you quit trying to eat things you're not suppose to?" I say as I pry open his mouth, grab the fluff of the filter and throw it towards the bushes.
"Do you need to go poop?" I ask, drawing a circle in the air. Initially I thought it'd be a great idea to train my dog using American Sign Language for everything, and yet, here I am drawing a circle. I was desperate. I figured it was a gesture he might recognize as I want him to poop. Oh it in no way resembles ASL's bathroom option but since I hadn't bothered to look up poop and figured Orion's attention span would lapse should I try and finger spell, a circle it was.
No pee for that matter either. He opted to relieve himself inside the apartment complex door. Busted when his paw prints tracked him back to my apartment.
Sigh. Scoop him up, kiss his cute face, dodge getting my face chewed off, and back in to bed.