Dog poo and balloons: Sunday in the city

The rowing machine in my gymnasty is situated in a rather large picture window which looks out on Industrial Avenue in the city’s east end. The view is far from beautiful — the back end of a Pioneer gas station and a Tim Horton’s drive thru — but on Sundays, it’s fun to watch the weirdness going on.

One time, I saw a Canada Goose and all her little goslings wandering through the parking lot, as if they were looking for their SUV. Another time, I watched an ambulance take away a woman who had collapsed in the Pioneer parking lot.

Slice of life, that’s the thing that keeps me rowing, distracting me from whatever Styx song is on my IPod. And this weekend’s fare was full of surprises. Yesterday, the picture window was filled with balloons — the hot air kind — that were hanging over the Ottawa landscape. There were cartoon balloons, real estate and insurance company balloons, even a large creepy butterfly. Always makes me wonder who loves these balloons. Are they really safe? I have visions of going down in a fireball caused by the hot air that’s fueling them.

But good for these people; they’re livin’ their lives like birds.

Today, I watched a large sheepdog wandering through the Timmy’s drive thru. He didn’t seem to be attached to an owner; he was doing his thing, groovin’ in doggy style. Suddenly, he took on that familiar stoop and he crapped three large times right under the drive thru window. Just imagine rolling down your window, pondering whether to have a full cheese slathered bagel or a kruller and smelling that fragrant odour wafting into your car. Turns my stomach just to think about it.

Minutes after the doggie dump, an owner appeared, no baggie in hand and coaxed the dog into a truck. If I hadn’t been yards away attached to a fly wheel, I’d have given that idiot a piece of my mine. No bag? Pick it up with your hands, you slimy piece of steaming dog turd. People like that shouldn’t own dogs.

Today was quiet at the gym, just me and three of my closest strangers pumping steel while the yogettes pranced around in hot pink lycra. I must admit to feeling sorry for many of these obviously fit women because most of them have asses the size of Kansas. No amount of yoga is going to help rid them of their rump roasts. But they don’t seem to care.

That, my friends, takes confidence.

Anyway, I’m back home writing this, with a belly full of Scott’s Sunday breakfast, loading up on carbs until the next time.

Life is good this September weekend.

Hope you’re having a good day yourself. 🙂


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