A Portly Man and a Bag of Poop

I'm 41 years old and it has come increasingly to my attention that my body is committing a terrible treason: it is getting bigger. I notice it most when I look down and can no longer tell if my shoes are tied. It doesn't help that I spend most of my days strapped to a desk in college, struggling to stay awake while the professors drone on and on about something that most mere mortals neither care about nor comprehend. So I decided to fight back against my body. I will never regain the svelte, tight body I possessed when I was twenty (ah, to be able to sit down without popping and cracking. THOSE were the days!), but I am determined to lose some weight and try to set an example of health for my family. No easy task.
I awoke this morning filled with determination. My boys were excited and promised to accompany me on their bikes and scooters (lucky them). I grabbed the dog, a two year old Golden named Sam, hooked him to his leash, and headed out the door. Now, in my mind, I'm still that 23 year old soldier who could run 4 miles at the drop of a hat and still lead soldiers in training later that day. My body, however, isn't cooperating with my mind. My first shock came with my first step: I moved forward and my body didn't. Instead it trembled and, like a train wreck in slow motion, wiggled and jiggled toward me until it finally caught up. This is going to be a LONG road.
Sam the dog patiently loped along-side me, sniffing and trotting, until he abruptly stopped, nearly pulling my arm out of my socket.
"Sam, come on." I urged
He looked up at me imploringly, his large brown eyes seeking to communicate across the great divide between man and beast.
"Sam, what?" I tugged on him.
He didn't budge.
I was growing impatient. For the first time in longer than I'd care to remember I was motivated to do some physical activity and I'm going to be stopped by my dog? Oh, I don't think so! I tugged harder. The kids circled us on their bikes like vultures over a kill, highly amused at the scene unfolding before them.
"Sam . . ."
Suddenly he assumed the position, that sacred stance that was the universal sign that nature was calling and this wasn't going to be a simple pit stop. But aha! I was ready for this. A soldier is always prepared, right? One of the great joys of being a father of three sons is that I don't have to do all of the dirty work any more. I promptly called my 12 year old who dutifully whipped out a plastic bag from Walmart. We would take care of this in short order!
My son parked his bike on the gentle incline next to us and stooped down when, terror! his bike began to fall. I watched the scene as if in slow motion. The bike leaned closer and closer to the earth and, of course, towards the HUGE mound of dog refuse warmly and recently deposited by Sam. I reached out but Oh! too late. My son darted backward in the nick of time as his lovely, sparkly-clean handle-bars planted themselves deeply in the steaming pile.
The other kids stopped their circling. The wind died down. Birds ceased their singing. Clouds stopped their gentle trek across the sky. We all stared at the splattered mess that lay before us. Well, everyone except Sam of course who stood panting and smiling blissfully unaware of how he had just hijacked my morning run. He looked up at me happily, no doubt feeling better now that he was a couple of kilograms lighter.
"EWWWWWWWWW!" My 11 year old broke the silence. The world began moving again.
We turned around and headed home to clean a bike. My lovely wife was on the front porch, more to see if I had survived my run than to wait for the kids and was surprised at our quick return.
My first jog lasted 3:43 seconds. I'll try again Monday morning. I'm so NOT taking the poopy dog. He can stay home and stare at me through the front window. I will never go jogging with him again!

Well, maybe . . . .