The scene is all too familiar: her nose is pulled to the ground, her sniffing ramps up, and a sudden pull on her leash steers you off course. Her frantic circling begins while you search for a crumpled-up bag in your pocket. You can’t believe how particular she is about finding a spot, and you can’t believe you lick your fingers to open the bag before picking up her shit. She curls into the shape of a question mark, and you stare at her, almost obsessively, because you’ve got to make sure she’s healthy, and that she didn’t actually eat all that pizza crust the night before. Then, you accidentally make eye contact; for an animal that has no concept of personal space or boundaries, she looks surprising alarmed by your inconsiderate gaze. She stands up as you kneel down, the bag over your hand, and she kicks up grass into your face.