Go Dog, Go!

On a chilly Presidents Day in Sherman Oaks, the Royal Rescue Pup (of Questionable Lineage) is walking me around the neighborhood. He's starting to run. I'm trying to keep up. Either Sir Blakey has to go, or he has to go after a squirrel. Which mission is he on? There's only one way to find out. At the top of my lungs, I yell, "Do you need to poop?" Just then, a workman schlepping heavy planks hurries by on the way to his truck. "No, I'm good," he says, "but thanks for asking."