Because sometimes, all it takes is a well-formed steaming hot pile of dog poo and a scream to win the day.

Here’s the thing about mornings: They suck ass. They’re cold, they’re too bright, and they exist purely to remind you that sleep was the only part of your life that didn’t feel like a goddamn scam.

But sometimes, just sometimes, the universe throws you a bone. And no, I don’t mean a spiritual bone or some metaphysical nonsense. I mean a real-life, loud-as-fuck, soul-penetrating moment that yanks your brain out of autopilot and shoves it face-first into the present.

Today, I got one of those moments. Walking my dog. Same route. Same street. Same crusty eyes and coffee breath. Suddenly, like a divine middle finger to the usual dread, a kid, the same kid as before, sticks his head out of a school bus window and yells, “YOUR DOG IS BEAUTIFUL!” Not “cute.” Not “nice.” Not “what breed is he?” Simply, Beautiful. And screamed it like it fucking mattered.

From the diaphragm. From the soul. From the part of the lungs that only come online when you’re screaming at a concert or declaring war.

And it felt good. Not in a fake Instagram quote on a sunset background way. Real good. Like a dopamine hit to the fucking skull, good. Like I could punch a bear and win life, good.

That’s the power of the little shit. The overlooked microdose of humanity that actually makes a day worth surviving. Not your green juice. Not your overpriced productivity app. But a rogue child on a government-funded missile yelling praise at your senior mutt.

But let’s talk about the real morning miracle.

Dog poop.

Not just any poop. I’m talkin’ Grade-A, Michelin-star, well-formed, odor-neutral, log-of-the-gods perfect shit. When you’ve got an old dog, this becomes engraved on the top of your never-ending wishlist. A diagnostic event. A brown beacon of hope.

Because when your geriatric, liver-spotted, farting-on-the-daily best friend manages to push out a consistent, symmetrical turd like he’s still in his prime? That’s a goddamn celebration.

You think I’m joking? Have you ever watched a 15-year-old dog do a flawless squat, drop a solid, and strut off like he just dropped a Grammy-winning album?

That’s victory!

You think enlightenment is found on a yoga mat with some organic gluten-free soy candle made by Karen in Portland? No! It’s on a cold sidewalk at 7 a.m., staring proudly at a perfectly executed dog shit.

So yeah, that scream from the school bus? Combined with a majestic poop? That’s my morning espresso. That’s my religion. Small wins. Real ones. Not the fake-ass “just be positive” bullshit your coworker preaches while microwaving fish in the breakroom.

Here’s your takeaway, sweet cheeks: You don’t need a fucking TED Talk or a bloody retreat in Bali. Sometimes all it takes is a random kid screaming love at your dog and a top-tier canine bowel movement to make you feel like the world ain’t entirely shit.

And that… that’s fucking beautiful.