Pocket Dog Storm Pooper

 I used to get upset about bad storms, but since we have them once a week, I am getting used to bad weather.  On Tuesday we had another bomb cyclone which was neither a bomb or a cyclone, just snow six times higher than me.

Three facts cannot be disputed:  If you live in the Northeast you are going to get snow in the winter if you sleep with a porn star you have to remember to sign the non-disclosure agreement, and I need to poop before bedtime.  On Sunday night the time change played havoc with my schedule.

I did not take my late night poop on Sunday.  Daddy kept me walking for a half hour. I peed quite a bit but didn’t poop.   My parents were ready for an upset tummy Monday morning, but I ate and pooped regularly opening another chapter of the bestselling book “The Mystery of Pocket’s Bowels.”

Tuesday morning the storm howled over our house.  We are lucky to have a porch and pee pads. Both River and I did our business there, neither of us wanting to place a paw outside.  Then we watched as Daddy tried to clear the driveway of a foot of snow using his little battery operated Snow Joe.

This is the same model that broke down in December, and the customer service people said didn’t work in the cold.  They sent a new one, and it has performed adequately during the last two smaller storms but was not made for blizzards. It is like one of those plastic lawn mowers with AA battery powered sound that little kids use to follow their papas around when they cut the grass.

We watched Daddy push the blower forward a bit and saw it become overwhelmed.  Daddy tried breaking the snow into smaller chunks and push his Joe over them to break the snow up, but this took longer than shoveling.  Then he met the three foot by three-foot wall the plows left at the end of the driveway. I think the angels added some power to his little Joe because somehow he got through it and cleared the driveway.

Then he came inside and leashed me.  I proudly walked to the end of the driveway then up the street.  The neighbors came out to bear witness. There was a fresh dusting of snow on the road.  I stopped, spun, wiggled my butt, then unleashed a perfectly formed poop. The neighbors cheered like the cast of the Titanic when Jack and Rose were reunited.  I tipped my tail and walked back home.

Someday my neighbors will tell their grandchildren that they watched Pocket the Storm Pooper perform in the middle of a blizzard.  

The story will be recanted through generations making me and my poop immortal.