Poop.

Yesterday, I met a man outside my door, a door that opens right out onto the street in a paved pedestrian zone.  His dog was peeing on my front wall, and he greeted me with “hola,” without a downcast eye or any other hint of embarrassment.  On Sunday mornings when I walk to the bakery early for our weekly splurge on butter croissants, I am alone, but for the men of the family walking their dogs and stopping to watch said dogs poop on the pedestrian streets.  Without a downcast eye or a hint of embarrassment.  In fact the inevitable pause in the dogs’ excited walk allows for a chat with the neighbor or a glance down at the newspaper in hand.  This would be downright gross...well still is, but made less so by the fact that the street cleaner comes EVERY single day, even on Sundays.  One person drives the truck with the water and brushes and another person walks ahead doing the pre-scrape.  I don’t want to ask who pays for this service, but love for our dogs, poop and all, seems well integrated into Spanish law and city budgeting.