In every conversation that I’m having with F now, the subject arises.

How many? What type? Where?

I remember when it used to happen before but you knew that was ending just as soon as the little barsteward learnt NOT to do it inside.

I am, of course, talking about shit. To be more precise, dog shit.

Now it is the same but different. Given Rufus’ situation, every time I am looking for solid or, at least, semi-solid. Definitely not runny. And, ‘where’ and ‘how many’ becomes – one in the house; two in the house; two outside or whatever.

You get my drift.

I really have to stop talking about it every time we talk