Last night, on Goblin’s nighttime promenade, I was urging her to excrete so we could go inside, when I heard a strange echo in the night air.
“Goblin, go poop,” I said.
“Poop,” said the night air.
I paused, furrowing my brow.
“Um. Go poop,” I said.
Another pause.
“Poop,” said the night air.
Looking around with phony casualness, I tugged on Goblin’s leash so we could move from that supernatural spot, but not before hearing the eerie voice again. “Poop . . . poop . . . .”
I realized it was someone speaking in the apartment directly next to where Goblin was sniffing a tree root. The window was open. The strange thing is, I don’t believe the occupant was talking to us. He seemed to be in his own, entirely separate conversation on the topic of poop. (Of which, perhaps he thought I was the echo.)
Goblin gave in to fate, pooped on the sidewalk, and moved on.
To Goblin, this dialogue must not have appeared very unusual: poop has a way of popping up when she is around. It is a topic dear to her heart. She is the Queen of Poop.
