It was the winter of 2007-2008. It was a ridiculiously cold winter, but a warm day. We were living in the tiny apartment that backed up to Battleground Park in Greensboro. It was a ground floor one bedroom on the backside of the building. By we, I mean me, Roger and Carletta cat. There was just enough space for the three of us and my little belongings, check that, there was enough space once I removed the foot board from my bed so that I could open the drawers to my dresser that sat facing it at the end of the bed. It just took me major brain searching and staring into space to recall the name of the park and I'm still not a 100% sure about it. I have an uncanny ability to completely block, forget or misfile entire years of my life at time. Not sure whether that's a good or bad thing. Anyhow...that day I decided to cook me some wings in the oven. In case you don't know, that shit takes like 2 hours or something. With my immediate gratification needs this combination can lead to much frustration. I was already starving by the time the process started so smelling wings for hours and turning them over and over a 100 times and staring through the oven door at them...you can see where I was with this. My porch/balcony over looked a small grassy area then the woods. There I had a sheperds hook with a birdfeeder on it. I could see it from my big chair in the livingroom and it made me happy. Earlier that day me and Roger spent quality time in the yard filling it with bird seed.
FINALLY the damn wings were done and I grabbed my plate full and piled up into my chair. I no sooner get started eating when I look up to see a big fat squirrel in my feeder with his cheeks stuffed full. "Oh FUCK NO!" Drop my wing plate to the ottoman run out onto the balcony, do some livid hungry girl acrobatics leaning waist deep over the top of the rail and down to the ground to grab a handful of rocks and start slinging them like a crazy person and cussing at this rat in a cute suit eating my bird seed. I finally bing one off the feeder and he flees. When I turn back around I see Roger gulping down the next to the last wing from my plate. OH MY GOD!! I don't remember exactly what I said but I'm sure it involved his full name of Roger Goddammit. About a split second later I realize my dog just ingested a whole pile of chicken bones and then proceed to freaking out status. Luckily he never chewed a single piece of food in his life so I knew they were all in there whole so there should be no worry of splinters or bone shards stabbing in his belly. I decided to watch him and see if anything looked amiss instead of rushing him to very expensive vet visit. Before the apartment I had never been privy to doggie waste bags and the picking up of poop. As often I could encourage it we walked into the woods and away from places that ones poop may take up an undesired residence in the tread of a bitchy neighbors shoe and also where the poo bags weren't necessary. That night no poo. Next morning, next afternoon...no poo. I was starting to be concerned because if there's one thing I know, it's the poo patterns of my furry offspring. That night I take him into the woods and do a mexican stand off with his butt...literally. I think he knew something was up and was putting it off as long as possible. When he finallly realized I was in for the long haul he sniffed and circled and squatted. And stayed squatted. Then turns to me with this "Oh Shit MOM" look in his eye. I can still see his face now. He started doing these funny little squat pumps...straighten the knees....bend the knees...straighten the knees bend the knees. As luck would have it we were in a rather dark section of woods away from the intrusion of street lights and it was well before the days of the smart phone and flashlight apps so I have no solid proof that he pooped whole chicken drummettes. But he never was quite so quick to steal food from my plate...he honed his skill of sit and stare you into food sharing submission after that.