I remember one time, the last place we lived in Illinois, I was, maybe seven. I was only there from age six to (through, nearly) age eight, three years. But anyway. We had this padlock-thing that had our key in it, and we had to put in a combination (from a dial -- strangely enough, K-E-Y, go figure) to open it up and get the key to open the door. And I could NEVER do it. I walked to my elementary school, which was one way, and my brother and sister walked to their high/middle schools, respectively, which were the other way. And I always got home like half an hour or forty-five minutes before my brother and sister did. So one day, I really have to poop, I mean bad. Not one of the messy ones, but still. And so I practically run home. And when I get home, of course, I can't open the key-holder. Just can't. Try until my fingers hurt, almost start crying, and still can't open the damn thing. So, I wait half an hour or so, and decide I can't wait a minute longer. Pop a squat next to a tree in our backyard, and let 'er rip. Nice, neat little pile, right next to the oak tree there. Now, the thing is, we weren't way back in the woods or anything -- we were at the corner of the two busiest streets in town. The town was only a couple hundred people, but still. And we were right across the street from the town park. I don't think anybody saw me, but I probably wouldn't have cared either way. So I finish up, use one of my old assignments as paper, and toss that into our burn barrel. Then I sit patiently on the porch and wait for my sister and brother to get back.The next day, my brother and I are walking around, and he points to the pile and says "Damn, that must have been a big dog." Yeah. Must have been.