The Pooping Bandit

I walk dogs for a living. Professionally. This job allows me to spend days (for better or worse, depending on the weather) hanging out in the park with dogs, being loved unconditionally by them. This job also gives me a choice of several different rich-people toilets to choose from daily, accompanied by big vacant houses with which to take care of business and not worry about grossing the lady friend out of the apartment. Needless to say, I take full advantage of this luxury, and my body clock has adjusted to making daily deposits in richies' houses.
A few months ago I was making such a deposit when I heard the door open. I knew that the lady who owned the condo had been trying to sell it, but usually we get a heads-up that there may be an agent and prospective buyers over on certain days. This day we did not receive such a warning. Since I had fully expected to have the house to myself, I had the bathroom door open. When I heard the door open, I sprang to my feet and attempted to sprint to the bathroom door (it's kind of a large bathroom) to close it before the real estate agent could make it to the bathroom. In my haste to do so I tripped over my pants and my momentum carried me into the door, slamming it with ferocity.
I quickly composed myself, flushed and ran the sink for a minute. Exiting the bathroom with a half-smile, tomato-red in the face, I mumbled something about needing to wash my hands. I grabbed the leash and scurried out the door with the dog, but there was no mistaking the smell in the air of that bathroom. It was not hand soap.