I promise that after this I will stop talking about dog poop. I mean, probably. For a while, at least. I did really enjoy how yesterday I thought I was making this offhanded observation about the dog being a pain in the ass (granted, an adorable pain, but still) and the next thing I knew, my comments were filled with people who were afraid I was randomly flinging dog poop into other people’s trash cans. Or who had terrible stories of random/unexpected dog poop. (I did go back to the comments to clarify that I am only dropping securely-bagged poop into public receptacles. Lest you think I’m a poop bandit or something.)
Oh, God. I’m writing an entire entry about dog poop. OH YES I AM.
Anyway, I wasn’t going to tell y’all about this, but as long as we’re just chatting about waste matter, WHY NOT!
So you know I’m on this whole walking kick now, right? I walk Monkey to school and then let Licorice drag me behind her as I loop around the neighborhood, listening to podcasts and hoping I don’t look too much like a total dork. I’m not ready to say I am ENJOYING it, but right now it’s pretty cool. The weather’s been good, I feel virtuous, the dog comes back and snores adorably, and I worry less about my thighs taking over Atlanta. It’s all good.
Well. Last week Monkey and I set out one morning and… there was dog poop in the middle of our driveway. Correction: There was SOME SORT OF FECES in our driveway. I didn’t know for sure if it was from a dog. But it was… weird. Licorice doesn’t go out front, and this was far enough from the road that something had clearly been in our yard. And assuming it was a dog (and further assuming it was, then, on a leash), who lets their dog crap in someone’s driveway and LEAVES IT THERE?
I told myself maybe it was from a wild animal. Weird, but whatever. Licorice was thrilled by it and we sort of knocked it off to the side with a stick and went on our way.
Well, a couple of days later I went walking with a friend and mentioned it as we passed it, coming up the driveway. “Maybe it’s from those damn feral cats that belongs to the neighbors,” I said. I have no idea what cat crap looks like; I assumed it looks like dog crap. But my friend has cats, and said no, it didn’t look like cat crap. Hey, who wants to come go for a walk with me? WE CAN DISCUSS CRAP. COMPARE AND CONTRAST! FUN FOR ALL!
This weekend, Otto mowed the grass and commented that there were several piles of dog poop in our front yard. Curiouser and curiouser.
On Sunday, I walking outside to get something and clearly startled one of the neighbor kids, who was standing in the MIDDLE of our front yard with their two dogs (they keep the feral kitties company, apparently). Now, normally when we’re home we keep our garage door open, but lately we’ve been closing it because leaves and stuff have been blowing into Otto’s precious Man Cave Of Tools And Stuff. In an instant it became clear to me that the kid was startled because he had assumed a closed garage meant we weren’t home.
“Whatcha doing?” I called, keeping my voice conversational, still not fully comprehending exactly what I’d just discovered.
“Just, uh, trying to get the dogs to go to the restroom,” he called back. This kid is a year older than Monkey. And I’m pretty sure he has his own set of issues, sure (perhaps starting with not being smart enough to lie?), but even when your parents think it’s a super idea to open up your garage to every feral cat in the county, I’m guessing that if you’re in middle school, somewhere along the way you’ve learned that it’s not only inappropriate to let your dogs poop in someone else’s yard and then just leave it there, but that if you were planning to do so, you might want to walk further away than THE HOUSE RIGHT NEXT DOOR, DUMBASS.
“Oh,” I answered, actually stunned by his honest answer and the fact that HE STILL WASN’T MOVING. “You don’t have them do that in my YARD, please,” I finally added. “You need to take them back over to your house.”
“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I won’t do it again.” And off he and his two little poop-machines trotted.
What. The. Hell? Either you don’t realize it’s wrong, in which case I strongly suspect you are being raised by wolves, or you know it’s wrong and you’re doing it anyway, in which case I am a little afraid that you might be luring those cats in for use in your ritual sacrifices.
I, of course, found the whole thing extremely unsettling except for the one obvious bright spot: After all these years, I finally got to tell that kid to GET OFF MY LAWN.