About people with poop bags*

[*Dog-walkers, not people with colostomies.]
They were out in a pack last night, as I took a walk at dusk: the dog-walkers.
Some of them were familiar to me -- the man who walks the dog that looks like Cousin Itt on four legs; the lady with the little terrier; the young woman whose looks as if her dog walks her.
Some, I'd never seen before--two ample ladies who must be related; they had the same oddly stiff walk; they were both dressed rather formally for an evening stroll; they said "hi" to me with the same tight smile.
But only one of them held the object that connected them to the rest of the dog-walked population, yes, indeed, NOT the leash, but rather:
The poop bag.
All those dog-walkers, strolling the neighborhoods, just waiting for the moment their pets pause and sniff the grass, the moment even the coolest canines dread, when they must assume ... the pooping position. What self-respecting dogs looks anything BUT embarrassed during this most vulnerable moment? And what human doesn't just stand and stare, knowing that the next embarrassing moments belongs to them:
The moment the human whips out the poop bag, and attempts the bag-as-a-glove, turn-it-inside-out-and-flip-the-poop-inside, heaven-forbid-the-dog-has-had-indigestion moment. Don't miss. Or squeeze.
The remainder of the walk is spent in relief (the pooping moment having passed) and chagrin: There's no chucking that poop bag until you get back home. [Why don't additions put waste baskets at corners? Just wondering.]
Last admission: I don't miss our former pet, the long-suffering cockapoo, Buffy the Wonder Dog, one bit. A big reason: No desire to ever carry her poop bag around.
Buffy herself would have hated poop bags for a very selfish reason: no poop in the neighborhood to roll around in. Her favorite activity was to escape from the house, tear around the addition, and roll in any old dog poop she could find. Oh, good times, good times.
So, now, what'd you wake up thinkin' about? Cause I hope it was better than poop.