For the most part, having a dog is wonderful. As I told my brother David, who just got an adorable cockapoo named Brooklyn, having a small dog is like having a stuffed animal that climbs onto you. Observe the two of them, passed out on their couch:

Of course, there are downsides to them, too. One of which is trying to get your dog to poop. And then scooping up that poop in a little plastic bag.

Gem doesn’t really like to poop, so even if he needs to go badly, he’ll walk a good way before finally squeezing it out. Cold weather be damned, he’ll drag me block after block after block while sniffing for a place to drop anchor. Then, once he does, it’s sort of a hit and run: post poop, he sprints off in the opposite direction as fast as he can. When he’s on leash, he doesn’t make it far, though I’m usually stuck bagging with one hand, while trying to resist his pulling through the other.

Normally, Gemelli has a pretty robust stomach. He’ll eat his dog food or his favorite treats, alongside bites of whatever meat or cheese Jess or I might be consuming ourselves, and digest it all like a pro. But on occasion, something doesn’t sit well. Then, when he ‘does his business’, it’s less like building a proverbial log cabin, and more like watching a soft-serve machine dispense frozen yogurt. In the worst case, he simply leaves a brown liquid puddle spreading on the sidewalk. And, of course, by Murphy’s Law of New York Dog Ownership, he only drops those liquid dooces directly in front of expensive co-ops, as the doormen eye us both angrily from inside.

In that situation, however, I’m never certain the correct etiquette. Do I take my little baggie and sort of smoosh the liquid around a bit? Ask to borrow a hose? I’m not sure there really is a good answer. So I usually follow Gemelli’s lead: after the last spurt, we both turn and book it as fast as we can.