(Frank, a man in his early twenties is walking his beagle, Spot, down the street of their suburban neighborhood. Frank is in a bit of a hurry, but Spot seems to have other plans. Their disagreement in the pace of the walk leaves Spot tugging the leash to the point that he’s straining his neck and wheezing. Frank is a little agitated.)

SPOT: Do you think you could ease up on the leash a bit? There’s something in this tree lawn that seems interesting; I wanna check it out.

FRANK: Are you serious? Are you talking about that Styrofoam milkshake cup? Spot, that’s garbage. The chocolate is getting crusty.

SPOT: Frank, Frank, Frank… You have absolutely no idea what an intoxicating bouquet this cup is wafting off. I’m compelled to spend several minutes with my nose buried in it. (Spot shoves his nose into the cup and starts breathing heavily and licking some of the chocolate residue.)

FRANK: Spare me, Spot. You have no idea how embarrassing it is for me to stand here while you sniff a piece of trash. Cars drive by and I see people staring at me. I can just imagine what they’re thinking: “Who’s walking who?”

SPOT: I’m not asking you to pick up my poop, Frank. I’m simply suggesting that you see this Styrofoam grail the way I do. (sniffs the tip of the straw) Look here. This belonged to a woman. There’s the slightest bit of crimson lipstick on the tip of this straw. (he gradually sounds more and more excited, and his tail wags faster and faster) And, from what I can tell, she’s a young woman. (sniffs a bit more) Yes… yes… She must’ve put some fruity lip gloss on over the lipstick. It’s light. I’m thinking cherry, but it’s hard to tell because of the chocolate.

FRANK: A young woman? You’re getting that from the garbage?

SPOT: I’m a Beagle. You know, they use beagles at the border to sniff and make sure nothing comes into the country that’s not supposed to be here. I know smells, and I know where they belong. The fruity lip gloss on this chocolate milkshake straw belongs to a young woman. (sniffs deeply) Blonde.

FRANK: Now you’re just playing with me. (tugs the leash) Let’s keep moving. I’m not out here for you to muse about imaginary young women and milkshakes.

SPOT: (pulls the leash back with his neck in a tiny act of defiance) So you’d prefer it if I made you pull out the plastic bag and do the walk of shame all the way back home? Talk about a smell even you can appreciate. Standing here for a few minutes while I sniff this chocolate milkshake (sniffs) …actually I think it was a malt. Do they still make malts? Well, they must; because this was definitely a chocolate malt.

FRANK: I think they might be trying them out at the new ice cream joint downtown…

SPOT: The one by that yellow fire hydrant on Main Street?

FRANK: That one, yeah… Wait. You can see color? You know it’s yellow? …Why am I talking to you about this? Are you done sniffing that trash? (gives the leash a firm tug)

SPOT: (gasps a bit from the force of Frank’s tug; but then he pulls the leash back) For the last time, Frank, it’s not trash. Do you know what I learned from this cup?

FRANK: That it’s garbage?

SPOT: No. I learned that this woman is somewhere between 22 and 25, and she hasn’t had any children. She either lives or works somewhere near the waste processing plant down by the river, and she tries to cover that up with designer perfumes. And, if what you tell me is correct, she purchased this chocolate dessert drink downtown.