Midnight in the garden of butts

I take the dog out for a walk at 2am. Not his usual time.
We meet a woman walking her two dogs. They sniff Morty.

“Right for the butt,” she says. “Classic.”

In the darkness, I hear a man’s voice. “Who’s talking about butts?”

“We’re talking about butts, honey.”

She introduces the man as her husband. Each time one of their dogs sniffs my dog’s butt, they comment as if they’re channeling the dogs’ internal monologues.

They say things like: “Just checking. Yup. This butt is all clear.” And then: “Nope, we better check this butt again.”

This goes on for a few minutes, until the woman says, “It’s late, we should let you go.”

Morty and I head down the street. Unfortunately, this butt-obsessed couple is going in the same direction. We walk together in silence, I suspect because Morty insists on keeping his distance from their dogs.

Finally, we reach their building. They say goodnight again and go inside.

Morty craps on their lawn.

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