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Better Than You
    [Jon Glaser]

    I HAVE A DOG. But this story is not about her.
    It is about me and how I am better than you. The reason I am better than you is this: not only do I pick up my dog’s No. 2’s, I also rinse and dilute her No. 1’s. Since this is a reputable magazine, from this point forward, “rinsing her No. 1’s” will be referred to as “the thing that makes me better than you.”
    I live in a big city, and I have always been disgusted by how people just let their dogs freely urinate on garbage bags, on newspaper boxes, or even right on the sidewalk. There’s no consideration or respect for the sanitation workers who have to handle the bags, the people who get newspapers, or even their neighbors and neighborhood. So several years ago, I started carrying a water bottle with me when I took my dog for a walk, to do the thing that makes me better than you.
    Over time, I started to feel myself becoming a little smug whenever I pulled out the water bottle. I was very impressed not only with what I was doing but also with my entire system for doing it. I didn’t inconveniently and awkwardly carry the water bottle in one hand. I wore (and still wear) Dickies double-knee work pants. Full length in the fall, shorts in the summer, both of which have a pocket on the side of the right pant leg that also happens to fit a standard bicycle water bottle perfectly. It’s almost as if the pants were designed for me. Or designed by me. I have them in dark blue, black, gray, and brown. A friend once asked if the pants were Helmut Lang. Helmut Lang? Good Lord, how much better than you can I be?
    On all my walks, I never saw anyone do anything remotely similar to what I was doing, and I gradually allowed myself to believe that I was the only one in the entire city—and quite possibly all of America—who was doing something like this. I wondered if people were noticing me, thinking about me, talking about me to one another after they passed me by.
    “Did you see that?”
    “That is so great.”
    “More people should do that.”
    I fantasized about standing in front of City Hall and describing what I do, showing everyone the water bottle in the side pocket, demonstrating how small and easy a thing it is to do, my voice starting to rise a little with passion. The little things add up to a lot, I’d say. I envisioned doing a print ad for Dickies: a shot of me walking my dog, reaching for the water bottle, with the caption “Dickies: Worn by the guy who does the thing that no one else does.”
    I didn’t go to City Hall. I didn’t do an ad for Dickies. And in all the months, and then years, that I walked my dog, waiting to be acknowledged, no one ever said anything. It became obvious at some point that no one else was doing it, and I resigned myself to the fact that no one cared.
             
    My dog and I were in the street when it happened. A woman approached me. She wasn’t passing me on the sidewalk or sitting in a nearby car. She was a good thirty feet away, inside a building. She came out of the building and walked over to me. I almost wasn’t sure what to do. The moment I always dreamed of was happening, and it caught me off guard. It was like finally accepting the fact that Santa Claus doesn’t exist, only to have him come walking through the front door instead of the chimney, on a day that is not Christmas, just to tell me what a great thing he thought I was doing with my dog. (After this, I picture him just standing there for a moment of awkward silence and then turning right around to leave.)
    This woman was impressed not only by what I had done but also that I had done it even though my dog