EYE CONTACT WITH VINCENT

My dog will only take a crap if he and I are making direct eye contact.

     I’m here in the park with my girlfriend, Katie, the most beautiful woman I ever saw, but it’s not her I’m gazing at. No, it’s my black Labrador, Vincent. His eyes go wide, and his pupils dilate as he stares at me from the squatting position. His haunches strain, and his lips puff out in concentration. My butt is sodden from the wet park bench, and I pray he hurries the fuck up. But, there’s no rushing this dog mid-movement. I can feel Katie smirking at me. He leans forward. So do I. We’re like two chess grandmasters staring each other out before a single move is made. We wait. And wait. Finally, in about the time it took for the Roman Empire to rise and fall, Vincent’s nostrils flare; there’s a plap sound; and he drops a turd onto the damp grass. He wanders off, and I ready the poo bags.

     “Just don’t do it, Pete, babe,” says Katie as I bend over to scoop up Vinnie’s excrement, breath firmly held, “Don’t play his game. He’s not going to just hold it in forever.”

     He won’t. I know that. He’ll just wait and do it on my carpet, usually in front of the television while I’m trying to catch up on Ozark. Believe me; I’ve tried not watching him while he shits. He just won’t go. Refuses, point blank. I’ve even tried waiting until he’s started, then looking away. Somehow, some way, he just sucks it back up inside himself like a vacuum cleaner to deposit on my floor a bit later. It’s a good party trick—I’ll grant you that—albeit one that would get you or I arrested.

     Fortunately, Katie isn’t too put off by Vincent and I eyeballing each other at toilet time like a squalid Romeo and Juliet, and a few months later she moves in with me. “But I’m not making eye contact with the dog every time he goes to crap,” she said on day one.

     That lasted a week, tops. Now, she’s as much in thrall to Vinnie’s weird fetish as I am. She takes him for a walk; he hunkers down to shit; she maintains eye contact the entire time until he’s through. I really love her for that. For accommodating my dog’s gross-ass habit. For accommodating all my gross-ass habits, although we don’t need to go into those right now. I’ve been a single guy for the last decade so it’s enough to say that I’ve built up a lot of them. I love her for agreeing to be my wife. And, later, for having my baby.

     Vinnie loves the baby. We name her Skye. She’s our absolute angel. Sometimes, we all fall asleep on the sofa together, a heaving mass of limbs, and when we wake up, I find Skye huddled into Vinnie’s chest, not a care in the world.

     But, as time passed and Skye started to grow, a problem developed.

     It’s not a big thing. Not really. She’s fine and healthy and that’s all we can ask for.

     It’s just that she must have been watching what we do with Vinnie when we’re all at the park.

     I tried to resist. We tried to resist. In the end, Katie broke first, but even if she hadn’t, I would have, sooner or later.

     So now, when Skye announces ‘Wan’ poop!’ we strip off her clothes.

     We plonk her on the potty.

     And we lock eyes with her as she puffs and strains. She looks just like the damn dog.

     If we don’t do this, Skye will just slide off the potty and shit on the carpet.

     Vinnie watches from the other side of the room, head on one side.

     There’s a plap sound. Skye beams. A job well done. Then, she looks around for the damn dog, and I swear he nods at her in satisfaction.