A License to Pee

The other day, some crabby old bitch with too much time on her hands started banging on her bay  window because Henry lifted his leg on the tree on her front lawn.  I wanted to give her the international sign for “get a fucking life!”, commonly known as The Finger, but I realized that I hadn’t picked up the dogs’ licenses for this year yet, so I contained myself.  Instead, I pretended like I didn’t know where the noise was coming from.  The more she banged, the more I just looked around me and everywhere else but at her front window.  She was incensed.  

Now, before y’all get horrified and say that it’s her property and her tree and how my Henry’s urine was vandalizing her property,  let me clarify how property ownership works here:  you might own your house, you might be responsible for mowing every inch of your lawn right up to the sidewalk and picking up the leaves of the tree on that lawn… but that tree, and approximately four feet of the land from the sidewalk onto your lawn belongs to the city.    

And that, dear reader, is the main reason I get an annual doggie license for my poopers. Although it’s also contributing to the upkeep of dog parks, my strongest incentive for getting them is that I am giving my dogs a License to Pee – and poop (which I dutifully pick up, I might add) on municipal land.   So when some crotchety old cunt gets all uppity with me, and I have the time and inclination, I can irritate the shit out of her by simply smiling, let her make an ass out of herself by yelling at me, and then calmly point out that, “my dogs are licensed and are within their rights to pee and poop on municipal property, which, incidentally, runs just past the huge tree.”  BOOM!  Nothing shuts a miserable cunt up like cold, hard facts.  

So today, I shall walk my  beasts past that petty woman’s house with their shiny new tags jingling from their collars and feel satisfied with my $50 investment – such a small price to pay for pees of mind.  

‘Cause you gotta fight for their right, to POTTY…