When it was new, a half-century ago in 1971, I saw Alan Arkin's movie Little Murders and was impressed. I was especially impressed by Alfred, Elliott Gould's character, a dull, alienated, dogshit-obsessed photographer.

I could tell even then that Arkin's use of this theme of a serious photographer out shooting dog-shit every day, was some kind of statement (the depth of which I really did not know, and still don't) about the urban art scene in NYC. But I was taken by the actual artful possibilities of seeing dog shit in Alfred's light of found or made art. What is tossed out by others *can* be something to look carefully at and even, to some extent, appreciate. Or ask questions about.

(Was Arkin making fun of, say, Irving Penn's cigarette butts?)

That same year, 1971, a good friend of mine had a summer job wandering through the wilderness forests of Newfoundland collecting certain wild animals' scat, and then analysing it in the lab for information about their dietary habits. It struck me (as it did him) as important science that he was doing. In fact, he later got a master's degree in Biology for his work with muskrat scat.

Maybe resultingly, for a half century I have, at least now and again, looked at animals' and birds' droppings and wondered about whose it was. Even admired their looks. And even taken their pictures.

Thus it was this morning, when I stepped out into the rain and saw these fresh and very wet pellets on our deck rail. I wondered who.

As it happens, among the animals that come by there regularly to feed are little red squirrels. I suspect these turdlets are from one of them. And I think they are quite lovely to look at.

Just the same, I'm not that dough-eyed zombie that poor Alfred was in Little Murders. I'm not that obsessed.