A Place to Poop

Inspired by truer events than humans should ever admit.

Chapter 1: The Quest for the Perfect Spot

So there I was, Socrates the Wonder Dog. Just “Socrates” for short, but don’t forget the rest. It matters (to me. Not the story). I was roaming the Balkans, just a humble stray. I had snatched some bad clams from behind a mess hall on this military base I’d wandered onto a week before (No one does bad clams like the Greeks). Anyhow, I am, like most dogs, particular about where I lay out the evidence of my less than savory food choices. I was looking for a patch of grass that didn’t scream, “Hey, this smells like last week’s chili.” I’m an artist, folks. I don’t just poop anywhere. No, no, no—I need ambiance. A nice breeze, a little privacy, maybe a bush shaped like Napoleon. You know—someplace nice.

But then—BOOM! Outta nowhere, here comes Private Nikos Pappas, the most overzealous dog dad this side of the Aegean. Now calling this dude a “dog dad,” is a bit much. I had picked him up when I showed up on base. He wasn’t nothin’ special—just a dude sharing his beef jerky. He was offering. I was takin’ him up on it. Before I know it, the dude slaps a collar on me and starts calling me Socrates. I’m not proud of that fact, but seriously, he had beef jerky! What am I? Stupid? How was I supposed to know this idiot was gonna act like a kid gettin’ laid the first time and declaring true love cuz he got his creep parts wet? Whatever. It was what it was.