From the Mouths of Babes

It was a glorious spring day and I was walking Hazel through the park, which was packed with Little League baseball players and future soccer stars. It was from one of these groups that one small boy broke away from and rushed toward me.

"Can I pet your dog?" he asked.  I'm not good at guessing kids' ages, but he looked to be around four years old, his turned up nose just barely reaching the height of my greyhound's needle nose. 

Of course I said yes. He followed my instructions and let Hazel sniff his fist before gently stroking the side of her face. 

"I love dogs," he said, "but I don't like dog poo."  I agreed that dog poo was pretty nasty. "I don't like dog poo," he repeated, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head for emphasis. "Pizza tastes better." 

I didn't even ask.