Doug Blough

I read a Trib column not long ago by someone I can't recall, about a “Poop Patrol.” Along those same good lines, I'd like to say a few words about my dog's bowel movements if I may. She's as regular as the blind date is long. In fact, Naomi is pretty much Old Faithful in all habits, but that “pause that refreshes” more so than others.

In chronicling her amazing consistency, we'll start with our morning walk, which I like to call, “our early-afternoon walk.” She, like me, is in no hurry to hit the ground walking; nobody's running at this house. She always waits about 10 minutes after Kiki the Wonder Cat and I have come downstairs, then I hear her dancing paws parading down the stairway, insisting on her first walk around our townhouse common area. A good pee and a couple contented rolls and then she allows me to drink my coffee and consider my day's non-activities.

BUT, no ifs, ands or butts about it, right around 3:15, she frantically announces her impending need to walk around the block, and fast! There's no mistaking this summons — she's pacing and bucking towards the door at my slightest movement. Off we go, south onto 29th Street then left on East Carter Avenue, where always halfway down that street, directly in front of either my old buddy's Ernie Oliver's modular or a few yards further at his brother Ron's house, she goes all hunch-backed and urges me to look the other way.

Not to worry, Oliver brothers; I always pack along a couple bags to scoop up what Naomi drops outside your fences. I have a strict “no-pile left behind” policy.

But enough about me and Naomi; let's get to my one-in-a-million kitty, Kiki. I'm in the dark as to her bowel movements, as that's between her and her litter-box, but she is a true American beauty. Kiki, or “Kooky” as I lovingly refer, has gained fame for her sunny-day accompaniment of Naomi and me when we do our townhouse walk. She always stays about 6 feet behind, but doesn't allow us to gain much more ground than that. When Naomi stops to roll, Kiki often picks a spot in some dirt to do the same. They're my beloved Holy Rollers.

She's a breathtakingly gorgeous, butterscotch-colored, long-hair with big ol' fat paws with a surplus of extra toes per foot. She's my precious little polydactyl, gifted to me by my niece Amber when she years ago moved into a place that didn't allow cats. Her loss was definitely my gain. This cat doesn't meow, but utters something akin to a purr crossed with a grunt, and she does so any time I touch her. I could count on one of my six-fingered hands the times she's actually meowed.

She's as predictable as Naomi when our bedtime finally rolls around in the wee hours. She'll station herself on my coffee table, directly blocking my fingers from the keyboard like she's saying, “Now knock it off! It's time!” As I head up the stairs, she bolts past me and beats me to the bed every time, immediately flopping onto her back for the nightly belly-rub till my arm's tired and my nose is itchy. Then the daily Wordle, and then we snore.

I can't say enough about my priceless little family, but at the risk of running long on word count, I'll say no more. Stay tuned for a future column where we'll delve into my own bathroom regularity. Like Naomi, I too prefer no one be watching.