"Is that your dog, sir?" asks the rookie beat policeman, "It needs to be on a leash."
You turn to see the 22 year old policeman walking toward you with his ticket book open.
"Oh, crap!" you say, as you aim the keys again, "Keith, I hope this works!"
There's a flash. The dog is gone. A steaming heap of dog waste is in its place on the sidewalk.
"Let's see your ID," the officer says.
"I don't own a dog," you say.
"Yeah, right. What's that?" the officer asks nodding over at where Keith had been.
"Uh, dog shit."
"There's no need to be vulgar," the officer says and turns his head to look at Keith, "Oh?" He pauses, and turns a sheet on his ticket book, "I don't suppose you brought plastic bags to clean up after your dog?"
"It's not my dog. But I'll clean it up, if you let me go," you say. You go over to the car and open the passenger door, and take some paper out of Keith's backpack. You crinkle your nose as you pick up the stinking heap. It mushes in the paper. You frown and whisper, "Sorry, Keith." You cannot throw him in the trash, but there's no way that stinking heap is going in your car. You hold the hot dog crap wrapped in paper in your hands, you can feel it oozing through the paper. You manage to aim your keys at the car and push the trunk button. Thankfully, it opens.
"Hm? What do we have here?" says the officer strolling over to the open trunk. Looks like all your junk from the back of your Punto is still there. But maybe some of it changed. You need to get out of here.
"Just going to stow this there until I can get to a trash can. There don't seem to be any on this street."
The cop is rifling in your trunk. You put the stinking parcel into the trunk to discourage him. He only climbs up on the bumper to reach into the back of the trunk. You aim the keys at Keith in the trunk, and push the button.