Every morning I jog five miles with my 63 year old dog.  We look ridiculous, me sporting a hot pink “Cowgirls Do it Better than Cowboys” T-shirt and white-stripes-down-the-side 70’s style silky black shorts, huffing and puffing in the cold November air and him trailing behind me looking for the perfect pee spot somewhere between the ditch and the horse pastures that line my dead-end road.  However, I don’t care how ridiculous we appear.  I came to terms with my stupidness months ago when I fed my horses while wearing my red gator skin FatBaby boots with my adorable pajama shorts one fine and lazy morning.

Anyway, as I was getting secret satisfaction by wheezing the melodious line “..picture this, we were both butt naked bangin’ on the bathroom floor” as loud as I could while I jogged past the house with the ten commandments sign proudly displayed on the front lawn, I noticed The Dog was unusually far behind.  After yelling for him to catch up his golden butt, I jogged back around to find out what all the nonsense was as to make sure he wasn’t constipated again.  I mean, it is a horrific thing to watch your geriatric retriever contort his face into an imitation of Marylin Manson before he lays a foot long stinker of concrete, but I digress.

Anyway, as I drew closer, I noticed he was neither constipated nor rolling in horse crap, but rather intently focused on the ground.  When I finally reached him, he was peering down a critter hole.  I don’t know what type of rodent or snake lived down there, but The Dog was very intent on finding out what it was, for he not only had his head cocked to one side, but he was spying down the hole with one eye wrinkled shut.

I approached him with that you better get your ass in action look, so he peered down one more time and then, he peed down the hatch!

I’ll be damned if he didn’t find the perfect spot.