Don’t you hate when people don’t clean up after their dogs? Of course you do, and so does everyone else. Everybody hates to see someone’s else dog’s crap sitting in their grass, but sometimes people don’t seem quite as bothered about seeing their own dog’s crap in someone else’s grass, which is why unattended piles of dung are a constant wherever there is a lawn and the potential for a strolling dog. Truly, it is up to each individual dog owner to do the right thing and pack in, pack out, as the outdoorsy types like to say.
In my neighborhood, filled with nouveau riche dog owner types, the popular way around being courteous is to have an underground electric fence, which is probably just as good at keeping out hobos as it is keeping in purebreds. Sometimes, however, those well manicured lawns and pristinely blown sidewalks are too tempting to resist, and out come the dog walkers, leashes in one hand, grocery bags in the other, at least the considerate ones do. They walk around the neighborhood and publicly toilet their dogs, pick up the poop, then continue on their merry way, that bag filled with crap like it were a stash of gumballs. One morning as I drove home from the gym, I counted no less than five women walking their dogs, each with a little bag of crap in their hands. It’s the must-have accessory for those who must have.
Recently, I visited MJ, who against my will has moved to another state. She is the proud owner of one crazy but adorable Papillion and the step-mother of a yellow lab whose lipstick is always half-cocked despite neutering. Ew. And yes, I felt the need to share that detail. If I have to see it every time, then you should know about it too.
Anyway, we decided that a morning walk with her baby in the stroller and her mismatched dog pack was a splendid way to start the day. She has moved to an extremely liberal and community-conscious area in the South, and in her overly planned neighborhood, they have actual dog poop stations like it’s a city park or something. Forest green metal kiosks house both a bag dispenser and a small trashcan, as well as a sign with a friendly but pointed reminder that every pet owner is as responsible for their dog’s feces as if they themselves were the pipe layers.
With two dogs in tow, I stopped at the closest bag station and grabbed two bags, hoping that the dogs would not require more than one each. I promptly put one on my hand like a puppet and began to talk to MJ.
“MMMJJJJJJ,” my talking poopbag hand puppet said, “Ohhh, MMMMJJJJJ? Hola, MJ. Que pasa?”
For some reason, my poop bag spoke with a really bad Spanish accent.
“MJ, I am hungry, MJ. Feed me, por favor,” my hand said.
MJ stopped pushing the stroller to laugh, which post baby requires a pause and crossed legs.
“You are crazy, girl,” she laughed at me.
“Si, MJ, si. I am loco. Muy loco!”
I continued with my piss poor Spanish speaking poop bag hand puppet as we walked the neighborhood, past other dog walkers who knew better than to put a dog crap bag on their hands. I tried to be discreet, although I am pretty sure I waved at more than one car with that tell-tale green bag on my hand. Then, when we were alone again, I would start up, “Oh, MMMJJJJJ?”
You know what else MJ does when she laughs now that she is post-baby? Yep, she lactates. We made quite the pair on that morning walk, me with a bag on my hand, MJ doubled over, eyes and boobs dripping.
Secretly, I wished the dogs wouldn’t have to crap because then our main source of entertainment would be gone, at least until we passed another poop station. But crap they did. Well, one of them did, the big one whose asshole is the size of a human's. I took the bag off my hand and said, “Do I have to clean that up?”
“No, of course not,” MJ kindly said, taking the bag from me and bending over to pick up the crap. After she had neatly knotted the end, we strolled back towards her home.
“Oh MMMMJJJJ,” I said in my bad Spanish accent, “I can’t talk with my mouth full, MJ.”
She rolled her eyes at me.
“Anyone you hate? Shall we set that bag on fire and leave it on someone’s doorstep?”
“Plastic doesn’t burn,” she answered.
“Even better,” I replied. “Or leave it in a mailbox? That would be good too.”
MJ ignored me and put it in the trashcan at the next poop station kiosk. “This is why you have cats,” MJ said.
“Exactly. I know where their poop is going to be, in a box, neatly buried in the sand, which I then scoop up with a shovel. I don’t have to feel it hot and fresh through my plastic hand puppet. Blech.”
Senior Wences is turning over in his grave.
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