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She waved at me as I was walking Mitzi around the park on her daily constitutional. I waved back I recognized her as the "little old lady" with the brand new white pickup and sports car parked in her driveway a few houses down from me.

She approached me in that ginger-stepping, arms-held-out-for-balance way that elderly people do when they’re in a hurry but trying not to run. She had colorful plastic bags clenched in one hand that swung back and forth like a crazy pendulum.

“Is that your dog?” she repeated as she neared me, her eyes darting from my chiweenie Mitzi to the ground in front of her steps and back again. Mitzi was often the recipient of oohs and ahhs from people we met on our daily trip round the park and so I waited for the elderly woman to reach us. She didn’t have a dog with her and I saw no other people in the park so I figured she was just another senior citizen with empty hours and an available soft spot for little things on little legs like grandkids or little dogs.

“Yes, it is. Her name’s—“ I started to answer.

“Someone is not picking up their dog’s doodoo!” She waved the plastic bag in her hand. It flopped around like a sock stuffed with a bread roll. I realized it was full of dog droppings.

I shook my head and shrugged in commiseration. “Yeah, some people aren’t good dog owners.”

“I stepped in it! Made me want to throw up.” She stared balefully at Mitzi. “What’s your dog’s name?”

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One for Tomorrow
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