Sorry

It started as a beautiful day. Luke, Root Beer and I went for a long walk down the Trans Canada trail. Our first stop was the gas station along the way. With $20 and the knowledge that we had at least three miles more to go before we would stop, I bought two ice cream sandwiches.
Luke was waiting with Root Beer outside the gas station.
An older man came out of the store.
I was unwrapping the treats.
He pointed to his crotch.
No, it's not that kind of post.
He pointed to his crotch and said: "Your dog. Your dog."
I looked at his pants and repeated what most people would see when they see a paw print on a piece of pant.
"Sorry."
"Sorry," he repeats in disbelief, and walks away.
Not sure what he was expecting - was I supposed to offer a dry cleaning ticket?
It's spring. There is mud outside. Our dog is obviously a puppy - and why was he so close to Luke and the dog that Root Beer could jump up?
I stand beside Luke and the puppy waiting for something to happen. The man starts complaining to his wife.
Gesticulating - and repeating "Sorry."
Luke looks at me with tears in his eyes.
"Don't worry about it," I said.
We continued our long walk. We saw a few squirrels and Root Beer barked at a few strangers.
When we made it home we had successfully survived a spring stroll and a grumpy beige-panted pain in the *ss.
And the day remained sunny and warm.