I’m a cat-person.
I get asked why I prefer cats to dogs all the time and I usually have a solid repertoire of answers for that inquiry, but yesterday, I gained a brand-new number one.
I’d love to simply tell you, outright what the new number one is, but I figure that without the story it’s not nearly as awesome.
I was walking to work yesterday when I sauntered passed a dude and his dog.
His dog had just dropped a deuce on the sidewalk and the dude was digging around in his pocket for a plastic bag.
For a split-second he did a quick scan of the area to see if he could get away with leaving his dog’s deposit. His plot was quickly foiled, however, by the appearance of some bitter-looking old gal taking her trash out.
She stopped dead in her tracks—clearly keen on the “I’m gonna leave poop” face—and the man knew he had to pick it up.
So he dug around, pulled out a plastic bag, and scooped up his dogs poopers.
The thing is, his dog was—um—a big dog.
As such, the dog left big dog sized droppings for the owner to shovel up. This required him to let go of the dog’s leash and use both hands.
When he let go of the leash, the suddenly much lighter and aerodynamic pup took off in a dash toward traffic.
The man, struggled to finish grabbing the last of his dog’s business—which promptly sent the bitter-looking old lady back inside to find something new to be bitter about—and stumbled after the dog.
He reached a few times for the leash; missing repeatedly whilst trying his best not to drop the untied bag—of what I can only assume was at least a pound of dung—all over the sidewalk and/or his shoes.
Finally at the last second he made a sort of awkward lunge toward the dog’s leash.
Only, the dog stopped so the owner went stumbling up and over the dog and landed, chest first onto the bag of poopers.
There was a long, awkward moment of silence. The dude sat quietly, no doubt processing what had just happened. The dog sat silently, no doubt sensing it had done something wrong. I tried to sit silently and avoid laughing so hard I’d pee my pants.
He got up sheepishly and looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the atrocity that had just befallen him.
I did my best not to make any eye-contact as he picked himself up from the ground and quickly grabbed the dog’s leash and did that awkward run-walk that people usually reserve for emergency pooping situations of their own.
I disappeared around the corner and heard him mumbling something under his breath at the dog.
I figure this situation, in addition to being hilarious, served a greater purpose in giving me a very solid example whenever people ask me why I’m a cat-person.
The top five reasons before went as follows:
You don’t have to walk cats.
You don’t have to carry their poop around in a plastic bag.
You don’t have to scoop their poopers up off the sidewalk.
You don’t have to feed them nearly as much as you do a dog.
You don’t have to take them outside to poop.
Obviously, nearly all of these revolved around pooping, so it seems only appropriate that the brand-new number one reason I’m a cat-person also deals with poop.
Without any further ado, the new number one reason I’m a cat-person is…
You never end up wearing cat poo. Period.