The freakishly slender, long-legged hound with the head the size of a rattlesnake’s started pooping on the sidewalk when I was 50 paces away.

Its owner, a neighbor lady, picked the dog up and placed its rear-end over the snowbank covering the grass. Assumedly it would be easier to scoop the poop off of snow rather than roughly textured cement, and it wouldn’t leave a nasty skidmark on the sidewalk. A very neighborly gesture on the lady’s part, I must say, and she didn’t even know anyone saw her do it. Good on her!

The dog excreted a long poop, then stood around waiting for its owner to clean it up. Not so neighborly, this dog. Very “me”-oriented.

I’m neighborly. “I’m a neighborhood guy,” I always tell my friends. I’m very pro-neighbor, pro-neighborhood, all of that.

The dog was blocking the sidewalk when it didn’t need to do so. It didn’t look like a puppy, either. It was old enough to know that you move when someone else needs to use the sidewalk. But it just stood there, in my way. So its owner shooed it off to the side for me so I could pass.

“Your dog seems pretty dumb, eh?” I said.

I leaned down to pet its deck-of-cards-sized head.

“What is that, a whippet?” I asked.

The neighbor lady didn’t respond.

“Are whippets generally dumb? Like, are they bred to be dumb? Is that why you got a whippet?”

Still nothing coming out of the neighbor lady’s mouth.

“You like ‘em cute and dumb, don’t you?” I chuckled neighborishly. NO response.

“How much did it cost?” I inquired, my head cocked in curiosity.

More silence.

“Hey, can’t you talk?”

Tags: Whippets