Dog countdown.

Sometimes it would be nice to have mild superpowers when dealing with dogs. Nothing major, like being able to speak with them or magically ball up the shed fur and roll it in the neighbor's yard. No, maybe like being able to see a glow on the ground ahead where something of interest to the dog lies, so you can slow down for him, or pull him out of the way before his nose gets it. It might save some unpleasant encounters. On windy days like we've had this weekend, it would be a safety feature -- my dog's nosedar gets screwed up when it's blustery, and he'll sometimes reverse direction so suddenly it can twist me like a corkscrew. Wait! I missed something! Damn it, kid, don't break formation! If we went past the target, we'll bomb it on the way back! 

But the best imaginary superpower would be to see how many steps are left before the dog has to 💩.

Under normal healthy conditions -- that is, the dog has not been sick or stuck inside a long time -- dogs always have to walk around a lot before they do the deed. People think they're looking for the perfect spot, le bon endroit, just as Flaubert always sought the precise word, le mot juste. But I am convinced they need to take enough steps to get the missile loaded and ready to fire. It would be helpful to have an idea how many steps are left, especially when time is short or the weather is lousy. It would help me to have patience, knowing when the ordeal would end.

This would be great to know for ourselves sometimes, actually. As WebMD notes, "Exercise helps constipation by lowering the time it takes food to move through the large intestine." You could just check your number before you hit the treadmill. You wouldn't need Metamucil anymore, and thank heaven you'd never need to even consider something like this:

Yes, it's real. I had no idea they had 
competitions.

But alas, my number-viewing superpower is just a pipes dream. I'll just have to be patient with little Izzy as I await his hitting the magic number of a morning. It's usually not too onerous -- he's what we used to call a regular guy.