It started with dog shit.
I’d been communicating with
Quite the introduction. They say a bird pooping on you is good luck. Could stepping in dog feces be as lucky?
With morbid fascination, much like when craning to see a car accident, I peeked as he rubbed his foot on a burlap bag covering a dirt plot, the closest thing to grass across the concrete landscape. Dog?! Maybe a horse. I had to look away.
If it had been me, I’d have let my date pass by, taken care of (doggy) business, composed myself and met inside the café. Some moments needn’t be shared. Strangely,
In the messages leading up to the coffee date, I had sensed an eagerness bordering on desperation. I tried to convince myself I was reading too much into his words. Sadly, it turned out to be another case of domino dating. From hello—well, technically “I just stepped in dog crap”—it was clear he liked me more than I liked him. The chemistry experiment failed to ignite.
Nothing really wrong with
No regrets. It was a beautiful day with the sun making an appearance after taking the week off and the crisp air felt wonderful as we strolled along a seawall after coffee. He drove me back to the ferry terminal and I awkwardly exited the vehicle, avoiding a misleading hug or kiss only to be sucker-punched with a bag he handed me. Two sloppily, but thoughtfully wrapped gifts for my dogs. Very sweet. What started with a dog ended with dogs. And, most likely, mutual frustration. He wanted more and, yes, so did I. Unfortunately, not with him.
Sometimes an encounter with animal poop isn’t good luck at all. Sometimes it’s just poop.